Вы находитесь на странице: 1из 313

1) o) y) c) E ' S) 1 0 H N) B) BISHOP) o) I 986) o)))

F) T) H) E) D) A) R) K) Finneoans Wake) The University of Wisconsin Press . MAD

The University of Wisconsin Press 1930 Monroe Street Madison, Wisconsin 53711) 3
Henrietta Street London WC2E 8LU, England) Copyright @ 1986 The Board of Regent
s of the University of Wisconsin System All rights reserved) 10) 987) 6 5) Print
ed in the United States of America) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publicatio
n Data Bishop. John. 1948- Joyce's book of the dark. Finnegans wake. Includes bi
bliographical references and index. I. Joyce. James. 1882-1941. Finneganswake. I
. Title. II. Title: Finnegans wake. PR6019.Q9F5566 1986 823'.912 86-40045 ISBN 0
-299-10820-1 ISBN 0-299-10824-4 (pbk.))))
For my mother, Anne Skomsky Bishop, in memory of my father, Walter Bishop (19 1
7- 19 8 3))))
Contents) Maps and Figures IX Abbreviations xi Etymologies xiii Acknowledgments
xv) An Introduction: On Obscurity 3) Chapter 1) \"Reading the Evening World\" 26
) Chapter 2) Nothing in Particular: On English Obliterature 42) Chapter 3) \"Fin
negan\" 66) Chapter 4) Inside the Coffin: Finnesans Wake and the Egyptian Book o
f the Dead 86) Chapter 5) The Identity of the Dreamer 126) Chapter 6) Nocturnal
Geography: How to Take \"Polar Bearings\" 146) VB)))
Chapter 7) Vico's \"Night of Darkness\": The New Science and Pinneaans Wake 174)
Chapter 8) \"Meoptics\" 216) Chapter 9) Earwickerwork 264) Chapter 10) \"Litter
s\": On Reading Pinneaans Wake 305) Chapter II) \"The Nursina Mirror\" 317) Chap
ter 12) \"Anna Livia Plurabelle\": A Riverbabble Primer 336) Notes 389 Index 463
) VllI) Contents)))
Maps and Fiaures) Map A. \"Howth Castle and Environs\" 32 Relief Map B. \"Our mo
unding's mass\" 34 Map A'. The Western European world 160 Relief Map B'. A \"Was
tended\" \"Neuropean\" \"Whorled\" 162) Figure 2. I. Etymological chart: *men- 6
0 Figure 4. I. Coffin text: Egyptian Supernature 97 Figure 7. I. Etymological ch
art: *gen- 186 Figure 7.2. Etymological chart: *leg- 200 Figure 7.3. Etymologica
l chart: *ar- 204 Figure 8. I. The ideal or schematic eye 228 Figure 8.2. \"one
eyegonblack\" 228 Figure 8-3- \"truetotlesh colours\" 229 Figure8.4. \"traumscra
pt\" 229 Figure 9. I. Etymological chart: *dheu- 266 Figure 9.2. The Facts of Sp
eech 268 Figure 9.3. \"Headmound\" or \"the Mole\" 277 Figure 9-4. The \"otologi
cal life\" of \"H. C. Earwicker\" 278 Figure 9.5. Etymological chart: *bha- 292
Figure 9.6. Earwigs on parade 296 Figure I I. I. Mannekin-Pis 334) IX)))
Abbreviations) All references to Finneaans Wake in the following pages are ident
ified by page and line number-the figure 389.18- 19, for instance, designating F
inneaans Wake, page 389. lines 18 and 19. Books and chapters of Finneaans Wake a
re given in Roman numerals: IlI.iv refers to Book III, chapter iv. The footnotes
and marginal notes in II.ii are identified by the letters R, L, and F preceding
the number of the note: 299.F2 designates the second footnote on page 299.) Oth
er works frequently cited in the text are identified parenthetically by the foll
owing abbreviations:) D JamesJoyce. Dubliners. New York: The Viking Press, 1961.

ID Sigmund Freud. The Interpretation of Dreams. Trans. and ed. James Strachey.
New York: Avon Books, 1965. JJ Richard Ellmann.james]oyce. Revised ed. New York
and Oxford; Oxford Univ. Press, 1982. L The Letters ofjamesjoyce. Vol. 1 ed. by
Stuart Gilbert. New York: The Viking Press, 1957. Vols 2 and 3 ed. by Richard El
lmann. New York: The Viking Press, 1966. NS Giambattista Vico. The New Science o
f Giambattista Vico. Trans. Thomas Goddard Bergin and Max Harold Fisch. Revised
ed. Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1984. As is customary in the scholarship on Vic
o, references are to paragraph number. rather than to page number. OED The Oxfor
d EnBlish Dictionary. Compact Ed. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1971. P JamesJoyce
. A Portrait of the Artist as a YounB Man. New York: Viking, 1964. U James Joyce
. Ulysses. New York: Random House, 1961.) XI)))
The following abbreviations are used throughout the text to identify languages a
nd dialects:) Alb. Albanian Germ. Germanic O.E. Old English Am. American Gi. Gip
sy O.Fr. Old French Anglo- Ir. Anglo-Irish Gr. Greek O.N. Old Norse Arm. Armenia
n Heb. Hebrew Per. Persian Ar. Arabic Hu. Hungarian Port. Portuguese Br. British
I.E. Indo- European Pro. Proven<;al Co. Cornish It. Italian R.R. Rhaeto-Romanic
Da. Danish Ki. Kiswahili Russ. Russian Du. Dutch L. Latin Sans. Sanskrit Eng. E
nglish L.L. Late Latin Sp. Spanish Fr. French M.E. Middle English SW.G. Swiss Ge
rman Fi. Finnish Med.L. Medieval Latin Turk. Turkish Gael. Gaelic M.L. Modern La
tin We. Welsh Ger. German Nor. Norse) Other abbreviations and symbols:) *) archa
ic century modern past participle present participle slang designates an etymolo
gically reconstructed form \"is derived from,\" in historical linguistics \"is e
quivalent to\" indicates river-names (in chapter 12)) arch. C. mod. pp. pres. p.
sl.) <) t) Xll) Abbreviations)))
Etymologies) Because they are susceptible to varied interpretations and construc
tions. the etymologies discussed in the following pages have been drawn freely f
rom a number of sources. Works consulted in the writing of this book include the
following:) Benveniste, Emile. Indo-European Lanauaae and Society. Trans. Eliza
beth Palmer. Coral Gables. Fla.: Univ. of Miami Press, 1973. Buck, Carl Darling.
A Dictionary of Selected Synonyms in the Principal Indo-European Tonaues: A Con
tribution to the History of Ideas. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1949. Grands
aignes d'Hauterive, R. Dictionnaire des racines des lanaues europeennes. Paris:
Larousse, 1949. Liddell, Henry George, and Robert Scott. Greek-Enalish Lexicon.
Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 187 I. Onions, C. T. et al. The Oxford Dictionary of
En a/ish Etym%ay. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1966. Partridge, Eric. Oriains: A
Short Etymoloaica/ Dictionary of the Enalish Lanauaae. New York: Macmillan, 195
9. Pokorny, Julius. Indoaermanisches Etymoloaisches Worterbuch. Bern, 1959. Ship
ley, Joseph T. The Oriains ofEnalish Words: A Discursive Dictionary ofIndo- Euro
pean Roots. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1984. Skeat, William Walte
r. An Etym%aical Dictionary of the Enalish Lanauaae. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press,
1910.) XllI)))
Watkins, Calvert. \"Indo-European and the Indo-Europeans\" and \"Appendix of Ind
o- European Roots,\" in The American Heritaae Dictionary of the Enalish Lanauaae
. Ed. William Morris. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1969. Webster's New World Dictio
nary of the American Lanauaae. College Edition. New York: World Publishing Compa
ny, 1964. Weekley, Ernest. The Romance of Words. 1949; rpt New York: Dover, 1961
. Williams, Raymond. Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society. New York: Ox
ford Univ. Press, 1976.) XIV) Etymoloa ies)))
Acknowledgments) To thank everyone who has contri buted in one way or another to
the wri ting of this book would require the invention of a character named \"He
re Comes almost Everybody\" who had an effect on me. Out of this warm body of pe
ople, I wish to thank in particular all those who read and discussed parts of th

is work as they emerged out of evolving drafts: Ann Banfield, Suzanne Bick, Crai
g Buckwald, Mitchell Breitwieser, James Breslin, William Chace. Vincent Cheng, J
ay Fliegelman, Phillip Herring, Catherine Judd, D. A. Miller, Josephine McQuail,
Mary Ann O'Farrell, Brendan 0 Hehir, David Riggs, Shirley Samuels, and Theohari
s C. Theoharis. I owe more extended and special thanks to Michael Andre Bernstei
n, Robert Polhemus, Ralph Rader, Thomas Parkinson, and John Henry Raleigh for th
e suggestions and encouragement they offered after reading a pen- ultimate versi
on of the manuscript. Thanks go also to all those students in seminars at the Un
iversity of California at Berkeley who, reminding me steadily of the general per
- plexities felt by readers of fjnneaans Wake, forced me to maintain a broad per
spective on the book and to refine my ways of articulating an understanding of i
ts lucid darknesses. For their patient assistance in the nightmare business of p
roofreading, editing, and help- ing to prepare a finished manuscript, thanks go
to Richard Curtis, Bronwyn Freier, Richard Gringeri, Stephen Kusche, Stanley Lil
jefelt, Mark Winokur, and Gabrielle Welford, my superhuman typist. I am addition
ally indebted to the Regents of the Univer- sity of California for a research fe
llowship that made possible the consolidation of a manuscript, and to the Englis
h departments of the University of California at Berkeley and Stanford Universit
y for their general support. In another vein, I owe a heavy debt of gratitude to
all those students of the Wake without whose work the writing of this book woul
d have been impossible. My own writing draws so freely from the following standa
rd works of Wakean reference that a blanket statement of indebtedness must here
take the place of running notational acknowledgment:) xv)))
James S. Atherton, The Books at the Wake: A Study of Literary Allusions injamesj
oyce's \"Finneaans Wake.\" 1959; rpt. Carbondale: Southern Illinois Univ. Press,
1974. Adaline Glasheen. Third Census of\" Finneaans Wake\": An Index of the Cha
racters and Their Roles. Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 19
77. Clive Hart. A Concordance to \"Finneaans Wake\". Minneapolis: Univ. of Minne
sota Press, 1963. Clive Hart. \"Index of Motifs,\" in Structure and Motif in \"F
inneaans Wake\". Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern Univ. Press, 1962, pp. 211-47. Mat
thew J. C. Hodgart and Mabel P. Worthington. Sona in the Works ofjamesjoyce. New
York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1959. Roland McHugh. Annotations to \"FinneaansWake
.\" Baltimore: The John Hopkins Univ. Press, 1980. Louis O. Mink. A \"Finneaans
Wake\" Gazetteer. Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press, 1979. Brendan 0 Hehir. A Gae
lic Lexicon for \"Finneaans Wake.\" Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of Californi
a Press, 1967. Brendan 0 Hehir and John M. Dillon. A Classical Lexicon for \"Fin
neaans Wake.\" Berke- ley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1977.) Any
one familiar with these books will recognize their imprint throughout this one;
I have tried, wherever possible, to derive all \"translations\" of Wakese into E
nglish from these sources, all unavoidable deviations from those sources being m
y own. Finally I wish to express my gratitude to the staff of the University of
Wisconsin Press for their care in seeing this book through production; to Allen
Fitchen, director of the press, for his responsiveness, encouragement, and faith
in my project, and to Jack Kirshbaum, my editor, for his patience and his couns
el on everything ranging from con- junction emplacement to chapter content. Warm
est thanks go to Ann Banfield, Mitchell Breitwieser, Jay Fliegelman, Catherine J
udd, D. A. Miller, Mary Ann O'Farrell, Dennis Weiss, and my sisters, Jeanne and
Nooshie, for their support, their enmeshment in this book's darker undertext, an
d their willingness to listen to \"things that will not stand being written abou
t in black and white.\" Somewhere among them, they heard it all. This book is de
dicated to my mother, Anne Skomsky Bishop, in memory of my father, Walter (19171983).) XVI) Acknowledaments)))
An Introduction: On Obscurity) \"IN OUR OWN NIGHTTIME\ Sooner rather than later,
a reader of Pinneaans Wake would do well to jus- tify to himself its stupefying
obscurity; for as even its most seasoned readers know, \"Pinneaans Wake is wilf
ully obscure. It was conceived as obscurity, it was executed as obscurity, it is

about obscurity.\" I And to this one might add that nothing will ever make Pinn
eaans Wake not obscure. Stories of the pains Joyce took to deepen the opacity of
Work in Proaress during its composition only intensify the impression thrown of
f by the finished text. Jacques Mercanton recalls finding Joyce and Stuart Gilbe
rt \"going over a pas- sage that was 'still not obscure enough'\" and gleefully
\"inserting Samoyed words into it\";2 Padraic Colum recalls \"from time to time
[being] asked to suggest a word that would be more obscure than the word already
there,\" only to have Joyce reply \"five times out of six,\" in what amounts to
an ad- mission that his designs were darkly principled, \"I can't use it.\"3 Th
e essen- tial question one wants answered in hearing these stories and in probin
g the murkinesses of the text itself is whether this relentless obscuration was
really arbitrary and wilful-\"sheer perversity,\" in Louise Bogan's phrase\"- or
whether it was leading somewhere that would repay the study, time, and labor wh
ich Pinneaans Wake demands of its reader. Joyce himself was un- evenly helpful;
as he put it to Frank Budgen on the less baffling matter) An Introduction) 3)))
of Ulysses, \"If I can throw any obscurity on the subject let me know\" (L, 111,
261). Not very expansively, he replied to the growing news that his readers simp
ly were not following him by wondering out loud, with lamblike inno- cence, to W
illiam Bird: \"About my new work-do you know, Bird, I confess I can't understand
some of my critics, like Pound or Miss Weaver, for in- stance. They say it's ob
scure. They compare it, of course, with Ulysses. But the action of Ulysses was c
hiefly in the daytime, and the action of my new work takes place chiefly at nigh
t. It's natural things should not be so clear at night, isn't it now?\" (ff, 590
). Typically, he defended his methods by displac- ing attention from his style t
o his subject, as he did again when replying to objections raised by Jacques Mer
canton over the obscurity of a passage in Work in Proaress: \"It is night. It is
dark. You can hardly see. You sense rather.\"5 In Joyce's view, all obscurity c
ame with the terrain he surveyed, and not with his treatment of it: \"If there i
s any difficulty in reading what I write it is because of the material I use. In
my case the thought is always simple.\"6 He was only pointing out in all these
remarks that \"obscurity\" is \"darkness\" rendered verbal (L. obscuritas, \"dar
kness\,") and that the night, his subject, was intractably obscure. Only a littl
e reflection, I think, will demonstrate that the systematic darkening of every t
erm in Pinneaans Wake was an absolute necessity, dictated by Joyce's subject; an
d that Finneaans Wake has exactly what so cranky a critic as F. R. Leavis wished
it had and of course judged it did not: \"the complete subjection-subjugation-o
f the medium to the uncompromising, complex and delicate need that uses it.\"7 S
uppose only that Joyce accomplished the least part of what he claimed when, over
and over again throughout the 1920S and 1930S, he said that he \"wanted to writ
e this book about the night\" U], 695) :8 \"I reconstruct the nocturnal life. \"
9 What would this sort of \"reconstruction\" have entailed? We might begin to ap
preciate the difficulties he would have faced by resorting to a simple experimen
t, an \"appeal to experience\" of the sort on which all modern forms of knowingand the novel-are based. Suppose, that is, that we charged ourselves with the ta
sk of providing in chronological order a detailed account of everything that occ
urred to us not last night (such an account would be far too sketchy to be usefu
l) but in the first half hour of last night's sleep; or better yet, suppose that
we fall asleep tonight intent on preserving for liberal study in the morning a
detailed memory of the first half hour of sleep. \"The charges are, you will rem
ember, the chances are, you won't\" (254.23-24). What we are likely to recall of
this little slice of \"Real life\" (260.F3)-\"YOU were there\"-is a gap of obsc
urity far more stu-) 4) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
pefying than anything Joyce ever wrote. The \"hole affair\" (535.20 [and a \"hol
e,\" unlike a \"whole,\" has no content]) will likely summon up a sus- tained \"
blank memory\" (515.33)-\"What a wonderful memory you have too!\" (295.15-16)-wh
ich in turn should generate vast \"Questions\" (Lvi) and \"puzzling, startling,

shocking, nay, perturbing\" doubts (136.21-22) about the possibility of literate

ly filling in this blank \"m'm'ry\" (460.20 [\"m'm'ry,\" obviously, is \"memory\
" with severe holes in it]). \"Now just wash and brush up your memoirias a littl
e bit\" (507.30): even were we to sim- plify this exercise for the benefit of me
mbers of \"the Juke and Kellikek fami- lies\" (33.24-25)-these were a clan of mo
rons, prominent both in Pin- neaans Wake and in the press of Joyce's day, whom g
enerations of inbreeding had reduced to a state of breathtaking feeblemindedness
-even were we to simplify this exercise by stipulating that we recall anythina t
hat passed through our minds in the half hour of \"real life\" under scrutiny, i
t isn't clear that there would be a great deal to say. Indeed, many of us will h
ave only total \"recoil\" of \"the deleteful hour\" in question (160.35, 348.8,
446.8 [not \"recall\"]; II8.32). A delightful Irish saying captures perfectly th
is kind of \"recoil\": \"when a person singing a song has to stop because he for
gets the next verse,\" according to the Annotations, \"he says 'There's a hole i
n the bal- lad.''' Some such perturbing \"hole in [the] tale\" (323.22 [of our \
"real life\"]) seems also to entrench itself in the head when we begin to \"reco
il\" the \"hole affair\" we endured last night. It is not simple obscurity that
rises to meet us; \"quite as patenly there is a hole in the ballet trough which
the rest fell out\" (253.20-21; d. 211.19 [that \"trough,\" not \"through,\" dee
pens the emptiness of the \"hole affair\"]) . Was one dreaming throughout this h
alf hour? And how does one know? Anyone's \"m'm'ry\" will attest that the averag
e morning's catch of dreams runs exceedingly thin when compared to the length of
time one lay asleep \"during [the] blackout\" (617.14). Indeed, some people cla
im never to dream at all; people who do remember dreams are not likely to rememb
er having them every night; and only the insane will claim to remember having un
- dergone eight hours of nonstop dreaming on any night. Authorities on the subje
ct will help us as little as our own \"maimeries\" (348.7 [\"maimed\" \"memories
\"]): they have conducted for centuries an \"embittered and appar- ently irrecon
cilable dispute as to whether the mind sleeps at night\" (ID, 629), arguing whet
her we dream continuously throughout the length of sleep and simply fail to reme
mber most of what we dream, or whether dreaming interrupts sleep only erraticall
y. 10 Even the most respected of these authorities will not diminish our perplex
ities: in Freud's view, for instance,) An Introduction) 5)))
\"a dreamless sleep is best, the only proper one. There ought to be no mental ac
tivity in sleep.\" II If we simply assume, however, that \"no mental activity\"
occupied the half-hour of \"real life\" we wished, in detail, to reconstruct, qu
estions of an unsuspected order of obscurity would rise up to meet us. For dream
s in their own ways may be obscure, and Pinneaans Wake may also seem obscure, bu
t both dreams and Finneaans Wake will only seem radi- antly trans lucid when com
pared to those lengthy intervals of \"real life\" that occupy us in the space of
sleep outside of dreams. Much of Pinneaans Wake, of necessity, is about just th
is. What happens here? And how does one know? \"Remember and recall, Kullykeg!\"
(367.11 [Kallikak]). One of many reasons why Joyce's repeated claims about Pinn
eaans Wake have seemed so improbable for so long is that people have customarily
treated the book, at Joyce's invitation, as the \"representation of a dream\"doing so, however, as if dreams took place only in theory, and without con- cret
ely engaging the very strange and obscure question of what a dream is. Recollect
ible dreams are the rare, odd landmarks of sleep, and certainly not its norm; th
ey rise out of the murk with a stunning clarity when compared to the darker, len
gthier extents of the night that everywhere fall between. As a \"nonday diary\"
(489.35) seeking to \"reconstruct the night,\" Pinneaans Wake is not about a dre
am in any pedestrian sense of that word; treating it as a book about a \"dream\"
is like treating Ulysses as a book about \"human experience\": both terms are f
ar too broad to be useful. Joyce's comments on the relationship of Pinneaans Wak
e to dreams and dreaming-comments that have bothered many readers-were therefore
often appropriately cagey: to Edmond Jaloux he said that the book \"would be wr
itten 'to suit the es- thetic of the dream',\" as indeed it must if it were to p
ortray the average night in which dreams, \"erigenating from next to nothing\" (

4.36-5.1), punctuated the dark UJ, 546); and to Ole Vinding, comparably, he said
\"it's like a dream\" U], 696).12 But as many as his comments as not orient us
less clearly in a \"dream\" per se than in \"one great part of every human existence\" (L, III, 146) \"about which we know almost nothing\"-in the night as an
obscure totality.13 In the critical year 1927, when it became clear to Joyce th
at readers who had championed Ulysses were withdrawing their sup- port, and when
he began cultivating their encouragement by talking about abandoning Work in Pr
oaress to James Stephens, he replied to Harriet Shaw Weaver's objection that par
ts of his new work were \"incorrigibly absurd\" by remarking, \"There is no such
absurd person as could replace me except the incorrigible god of sleep and no w
aster quite so wasteful\" (L, I, 252). He was) 6) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
implying what he said often and elsewhere more directly: \"I want to de- scribe
the night itself.\" 14 And of the night: \"Here is the unknown.\" 15 \"Recoil\"
again that \"blank memory\" of the \"hole affair\" we all went \"trough,\" \"eve
n in our own nighttime\" (7.21). If we momentarily brush aside all the evident o
bscurities and arbitrarily assume that a continuous stream of \"thought\" purled
through our minds in the half hour of \"real life\" we wished, in detail, to re
construct, we would face the new problem not simply of replacing a \"blank memor
y\" with a presumed content, but of find- ing a means by which to do so. Particu
larly if we think of sleep (as opposed to \"dreams\") as that part of the night
which cannot be remembered, this would mean finding a way of \"reveiling\" (220.
33 [note the occluding \"veil\"]) an interval of life inherently barred from \"m
ummery\" (535.30 [\"memory\"]). Since \"in the night the mummery\" (310.23) is m
asked (or \"mummed\,") all such attempts to \"recoil\" will seem \"unaveiling\"
(503.26). Indeed, it is as if the persons we become in the \"veiled world\" (139
. I [of the night]) say\"good- bye\" to any potentially retrievable \"mummeries\
" as soon as they \"go by\": \"Dear gone mummeries, goby!\" (535.27). As if unde
r hypnosis (Gr. hypnos, \"sleep\,") \"[we] will remain ignorant of all. . . and
draw a veil\" (238.15- 17). Can we nonetheless, by some determined exertion or i
nferential indirec- tion, \"reconstruct\" a half hour of \"real life\" of which
we have no \"mummery\" and which no amount of volition (\"would\") or obligation
(\"should\") allows us to know? \"You wouldnt should as youd remesmer. I hypnot
\" (360.23-24) because sleep (hypnos) puts us in a trance (\"mesmer\") that move
s us into \"Metamnisia\" (158.10 [Gr. \"metamnesia,\" \"beyond forgetfulness\"])
; and from there, we find everything \"leading slip by slipper to a general amne
sia\" (122.5-6). What becomes obscure now is not simply the presumed content of
the \"blank memory\" we all \"recoil,\" but the operation of memory itself, and
of \"mummery's\" darker underside, in forgetting. Any reconstruction of the nigh
t would of necessity have to open up bottomless inquiries into the complementary
relations of memory and amnesia, and into our relations with the past. Since me
mory is the network of operations that gives us a sense of indivisible \"samenes
s\"-of \"identity\"-in time, what would be- come equally obscure, even questiona
ble, is the stability of \"identity.\" For \"as I now with platoonic leave recoi
l\" (348.8), thinking about sleep is like being badly in \"Platonic love\": I ha
ve no real contact with the person in question, who seems to have taken \"leave,
\" at least of my senses. Worse, since presumably \"I have something inside of m
e talking to myself\" (522.26), but I cannot \"recoil\" it, it must be that \"I'
m not meself at all\" (487.18).) An Introduction) 7)))
\"You,\" therefore, \"may identify yourself with the him inyou\" (496.25-26)- wh
ere that \"him\" would refer to a \"person suppressed for the moment\" (280.121 3) . Again, however, we might bypass all these obscure problems by suppos- ing
-improbably-that something awakened us after a half-hour of sleep last night, an
d enabled us to rise out of the murk of our own lives with dim memories and flee
ting impressions that \"something happened that time I was asleep\" (307.F5): a
dream. Although this would put us \"mehrer the murk\" (506.24 [\"nearer the mark
\"]), a Beckettian cry of relief-\"At last, a brain with content!\"-would be far

too hastily vented; for the retrieval of this dream \"from the wastes a' sleep\
" (64. I) would actually stir up more (Ger. mehr) rather than less \"murk\" (hen
ce \"mehrer the murk\.") How do we know that the dream shakily falling together
in \"mummery\" really hap- pened during sleep and is not, for instance, a sponta
neous after-effect of wakening? Since \"we only know dreams from our memory of t
hem after we are awake\" (ID, 76), not from direct experience, everything we \"k
now\" is circumstantial, reaching us after the fact. 16 What we have rashly labeled a dream, then, might more accurately be called the \"murmury\" of a dream
(254.18). And since all such dreams occur to us-literally-when we wake up and as
sume the conscious capacity to \"remumble\" them (295.4 [\"mumble\"]), to articu
late them to ourselves in \"murmury\" (254.18 [\"mur- murs\"]), traducing them i
n the process, they will help only some in allow- ing us to know what really hap
pened in the clearer few minutes of the dark half- hour that we wished, in detai
l, to reconstruct. This distinction is one that Freud made by partitioning the d
ream into a \"manifest content\" (of which the dreamer is conscious) and a \"lat
ent content\" (of which the dreamer is not): \"dreams only show us the sleeper i
n so far as he is not sleep- ing\";l? the examination of \"dreams is the royal r
oad to the unconscious,\" not the unconscious itself (ID, 647). Dreams in this c
ustomary sense, as Joyce pointed out to Jacques Mercanton, are not what Pinneaan
s Wake is about: \"'Work in Progress'? A nocturnal state, lunar. That is what I
want to convey: what goes on in a dream, during a dream. Not what is left over a
fterward, in the memory. Afterward, nothing is left.\" 18 Even were we to disreg
ard as sophistic the evident epistemological prob- lems surrounding dreams, new
problems would make difficult our attempts to chronicle a half-hour fragment of
the dark. For the question would arise of how we might arrange the dream chronol
ogically, in history's clock-time and in linear script. Uncertainty would contam
inate our knowledge of how long the dream lasted, surely, and of when exactly in
the half-hour under) 8) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
our consideration it occurred. But even murkier questions would occlude our sens
e of its evolution in time: on what image did this dream begin? and what was goi
ng on immediately preceding its formation? On what last image did the dream end?
and what followed that? Merely to ask these questions is to begin noting how bo
ttomless any dream is in its obscurity, disappearing into a point that Freud cal
led its \"navel,\" \"where it reaches down into the unknown\" (ID, I43n., 564).
Trying to ascertain what happened before the first sketchy event that one recall
s of any dream-\"how the deepings did it all begin\" (428.5)-seems an exercise u
ndertaken in vain, in vanity: \"Fan- tasy! funtasy on fantasy, amnaes fintasies!
\" (493.18). Thinking about these nocturnal \"fantasies,\" one finds \"everythin
g\" (L. omnes) \"leading slip by slipper to a general amnesia\" (hence \"amnaes\
,") where thinking itself blurs out into \"emptiness\" (L. vanitas) and a conten
tless \"void\" (L. vanus). Any book purporting to reconstruct the night-and part
icularly an average night stirred by dreams-would have to show us how and why an
d when these \"mummeries\" (535.27 [\"masked performances\"]) bled up out of the
dark \"from next to nothing\" (4.36-5. I), and there forced themselves into art
iculate \"murmury.\" Then, too, uncertainty would infect our knowledge not simpl
y of the ex- tension of the dream in linear time, but also of its own internal o
rder in time. No one remembers the experience of sleep, if at all, as a sequence
of events linked chronologically in time by cause and effect from the moment hi
s head hit the pillow to the time the alarm clock startled him into rational acc
ountability in the morning. Instead, memory of the night, often trig- gered by a
random gesture or thought, seems to arise by association, dim particles of the
dark standing out in \"m'm'ry\" and evoking others, and still others, until, by
a process of mnemonic linking, one has filled in the gaps and reconstructed a sp
otty \"m[e]m[o]ry\" (460.20). How does one know that this randomly drifting form
of recollection does not replicate exactly the order in which dreams sequential
ly unfolded in the night-apparent last part first, apparent first part in the mi
ddle, \"blackholes\" (549.5) everywhere else-and that what occurs to one as a ju
mble of disarranged impressions is not just that: a jumble of disarranged impres

sions, perhaps concealing a se- cret structure of its own, but perhaps not, upon
which one imposes a co- herent narrative structure after the fact in order to m
ake logical sense of it? Even supposing that we could dredge up a content for a
half hour of \"our own nighttime\" and could order it sequentially, there would
remain the vexing questions of what, if anything, the dream meant, and whether i
t was worth figuring out: not everyone agrees that dreams are meaningful; and) A
n Introduction) 9)))
not everyone who thinks that dreams are meaningful agrees on what dreams mean. \
"It is night. It is dark.\" And it is all very obscure. Indeed, \"we are circumv
eiloped by obscuritads\" (244.15 [note again the \"circumveloping\" \"veil\"]) .
Some such exercise in \"nightwatch service\" (576.30) as the one we have just u
ndertaken is crucial to any reading of Joyce's \"nonday diary\" because it will
begin-merely begin-to \"reveil\" the essential obscurity ofthe mate- rial with w
hich Finneaans Wake is literately dealing: \"reading [the] Evening World\" (28.2
0) as we experience it \"even in our own nighttime\" is not easy. Such \"night d
uty\" (429.23) will also begin to \"reveil\" why darkness and obscurity are inte
gral aspects ofJoyce's \"book of the dark\" (251.24), and not mere mannerisms. H
ad Joyce made Pinneaans Wake less obscure than it is, he would have annihilated
everything about his material that is most es- sential, most engaging, funniest,
and most profound-rather in the same way that an intrusive sweep of \"floodligh
ts\" would destroy any nightscape (134.18). The obscurity of Pinneaans Wake is i
ts essence and its glory. In its own artful form of\" chiaroscuro,\" the book re
nders the dark matters we have considered eminently \"clearobscure\" (247.34 [th
e Eng. \"chiaroscuro\" de- rives from the It. chiar-oscuro, \"clear-dark\"]). As
for that ample \"blank memory\" that we have left hovering uncomfor- tably in m
ind, \"shllwe help . . . you t'rigolect a bit? yismik? yimissy?\" (234.2S-26)-ev
en while acknowledging that any such attempt \"to recol- lect\" must be somethin
g of a \"joke\" opening into areas \"of facetious mem- ory\"? (147.30-31 [\"t'ri
golect\" plays on the Fr. riaoler, \"to joke,\" while that \"yismik\" \"reveils\
" a resistantly unlifting \"yashmak,\" the Moslem double veil]). At the Wake's e
ncouragement, then, \"let's hear what science has to say, pundit-the-next-best-k
ing\" (505.27-28), where the obscure word is \"sci- ence\"; and as opposed to ps
ychoanalysis, whose status as a science has been in question since it originated
, let's make this \"real science,\" with wires and meters and things that can be
measured.) \"HOW WE SLEEP\ Another, less troublesome reason why Pinneaans Wake
may have seemed so improbable as a reconstruction of the night, at least to read
ers of the last three decades, is that many of them will have been indoctrinated
into a far different sense of sleep than the one which Joyce, living in an age
dominated by psychoanalysis, would have had. Anyone who has looked into the cur) 10) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
rent literature on dreams will have discovered a mass of facts about \"REMs\" an
d \"K-complexes\" and \"alpha waves\" that Joyce could not possibly have known.
Since this literature inevitably affects the way in which we think about sleep,
it complicates the way in which we approach a book purport- ing to reconstruct t
he night; for science claims to give true representations of things, as opposed
to eccentric and perverse ones. Problematically, then, though it needs to be hel
d in perspective, the new material cannot be ignored without in some way relegat
ing Pinneaans Wake to the position of a quirkily dated legpull. Fortunately, any
light on the dark being useful, it helps us indirectly to fill in some of those
roomy \"blackholes\" in our \"m'm'ry.\" Here, then, is a vastly simplified reda
ction of the current \"facts,\" and some ques- tions they raise about sleep and
about the plausibility of Joyce's \"book of the dark.\" As it says there, \"sift
ed science will do your arts good\" (440.19-20). The almost accidental discovery
of \"rapid-eye movements\" (or \"REMs\ in a sleep laboratory in the 19SOS occas
ioned what some have considered a revolution in the study of the night. 19 When
sleep-researchers curious about the causes of these odd rolling motions in the e

yes of sleeping people began systematically to awaken their dormant subjects, th

ey almost always dis- covered, beneath the twitching eyelids, \"dreams.\" Sleep
accompanied by rapid-eye movements (or \"REM sleep\") therefore began rapidly to
seem an \"objective\" sign of dreaming and, beyond that, a universal one. Peopl
e who claimed never at all in their lives to dream, when awakened from REM sleep
, recounted the most vividly detailed dreams, and as volubly as neu- rotics; yet
when questioned about these dreams in the morning, they swore that they had dre
amed nothing at all. Others awakened in the middle of REM sleep, who began compa
rably to recount dreams but dozed off in the middle of their telling, recalled,
when immediately reawakened, having been awakened earlier, but not having dreame
d. Over the decades, snow- balling evidence of this kind began to show that ever
ybody alive dreams, and several times a night, but that the extreme volatility o
f the \"maimeries\" involved makes dreams hard \"t'rigolect\": even people who d
o remember their dreams by and large seem to recall only fractions. \"We foregot
at wik- ing when. . . the bleakfrost chilled our ravery\": (338.30-31 [\"when t
he breakfast killed our reverie\"]) . Because rapid-eye movements seem generally
to accompany dreaming, some people have come to regard them as the\" somatic co
rrelates\" of\" dreams. \" And dreaming in turn, far from being a purely psychog
enetic disturbance, has begun \"to take on the proportions of an almost universa
l biological phe- nomenon\"2\302\260-\"universal\" because not only adult humans
, but all forms of) An Introduction) II)))
mammalian life, including newly born infants and unborn babies in the uterus, al
so succumb to sleep disrupted by rapid-eye movements. 21 The gen- eral picture e
merging from the study of REM sleep is one of aggregating ob- scurity and weirdn
ess: it shows that nightly in sleep, roughly every ninety minutes, for durations
lasting anywhere from three to fifty minutes, every- body in the world drifts i
nto \"a third state of existence,\" a dream-riddled limbo that has also been cal
led \"paradoxical sleep\"-\"paradoxical\" because the person who has drifted int
o it is at once sleeping and not sleeping. While his body lies paralytically imm
obilized and couldn't move if it wanted to- \"He's stiff\" (6.22)-the eyes and b
rain seem to be partially awake and con- ducting complex affairs in a world of h
allucinated objects. Sleep researchers had begun to observe, early in the course
of these studies, evidently intri- cate parallels between the movements and foc
al adjustments made by the eyes in REM sleep, and the images that the dreaming s
ubject believed him- self to be seeing (in one famous case, the researcher waken
ing a sleeping person whose eyes were twitching back and forth from left to righ
t over and over again learned that the dreamer had imagined two people throwing
tomatoes at each other as he watched from a distance) .22 I t was as if, then, t
he eyes of the dormant person had involuntarily lifted toward wakening under som
e internal impulsion, while the rest of the body lay paralyzed in slumber. Since
the eyes seem to undergo such partial wakening during REM sleep, the findings h
ave enlivened a debate, persisting from the nineteenth century, as to whether vi
sual dreams are presentative or representative in character: are dreams events i
n which we really see, but see unreal things; or are they representative, fantas
ies in which we merely imagine ourselves seeing things? Investigations next bega
n looming in on those slight twitches and jerks which most people will casually
have noted disrupting the bodies of people asleep. The study of such movements,
again during REM sleep, opened the possibility that they too might well bear eer
ie correspondences to actions hallucinatorily undergone interior to the dreamer'
s dream: in one exem- plary case \"the right hand, left hand, and a foot execute
d movements in the order named, and the subject, when immediately awakened there
after, re- ported that he lifted a bucket with his right hand, supported it with
his left, and started to walk away.\" 23 Inexplicably, moreover, periodic inter
vals of REM sleep seemed to be followed by wholesale upheavals of the body, by t
he need to shift position or roll over in bed. 24 Exercising the indefatigable i
ngenuity and resourcefulness of Western sci- ence, neurologists have also affixe
d wires and meters to people's private) 12) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))

parts, so to ascertain that all males and females at all capable of it-even infa
nts newly born-experience penile or clitoral erections regularly dur- ing phases
of REM sleep, five times a night, every ninety minutes or so, every night, reaa
rdless ofthe dream's content (the report cited gives the case of a male succumbi
ng to dark, vexed arousal during repeated dreams of maj or attack by shark and s
nake) .25 Since anyone overcome by an event of this magnitude in wakefulness wou
ld surely acknowledge it consciously, findings like these raise the fascinating
question of how a person asleep and dreaming might register a comparable but unc
onscious awareness, in the imagery of the dream, of the event rocking the body.
Certainly, the evi- dence suggests what people have always vaguely known: that d
reams and sexual desire are inextricably and uneasily linked. But it also highli
ghts the strangely blurred relations between desire and the objects desire seeks
out- desire, in the case cited, evidently concealed from itself and converted i
nto its opposite in the misinterpretation-prone head. Toward what object, then,
when one \"hallucinate[s] like an erection in the night\" (310.23), is one point
ing-\"pointing up to skyless heaven like the spoon out of sergeant- major's tay\
" (33I.I-2)? And \"Whor dor the pene lie\" (349.1-2 [Port. dor, \"pain\"; It. pe
ne, \"penis\"]) in dreams from which one wakens to \"recoil\" only horror and te
rror? Anxious to prove that dreaming had clear somatic manifestations, early sle
ep-research tended to discover dreams only in the night's cyclically recur- rent
periods of REM sleep, presuming that the brain rested in the intervals between.
Later research pressing into these darker parts of sleep, however, discovered t
hat \"mental life\" seemed doggedly to persist there too, though in far differen
t forms: reluctant subjects repeatedly awakened from \"non-REM sleep\" reported
having been dimly mulling over trivial matters bearing on work, personal problem
s, and other items constituting an average day's resi- due. Unlike the vivid dre
ams bled up out of REM sleep, then, a kind of dim, distorted, internal discourse
seemed to seep through NREM sleep. 26 But even these discoveries seem unstable:
severe nightmares and episodes of sleep- walking, for instance, seem to emerge
from NREM sleep; and the question always remains whether the thoughts discovered
in the dark did not rush into the vacuum of the mind at the moment of the subje
ct's awakening. Many obscurities remain. 27 The research is interesting because
it has elevated to the status of scien- tific truth one of many things that has
struck people as being least probable about Pinneaans Wake: \"whatever the signi
ficance of dreaming, it is impor- tant to note that consciousness-in the sense o
f mental experience-is not) An Introduction) 13)))
completely abolished even during the deepest stages of sleep\";28 \"there is no
point in the sleep cycle at which consciousness suddenly appears. It seems to be
there all along\" (here the obscure word is \"consciousness\.") 29 So some- thi
ng very dark may indeed have been going on in that \"deleteful\" half-hour of \"
real life\" that we began to reconstruct and whose blank \"m'm'ry\" we all \"rec
oil.\" The question next arises, then, of what relation this dark thought might
have to language; for where there is thought, in one view, language cannot be fa
r behind. The problem with all of these studies-and with their bearing on Pin- n
eaans Wake-is that they finally reveal less about the content and the inte- rior
of the \"dream,\" as we experience it \"in our own nighttime,\" than about the
bodies of sleeping people. No one captivated by the dark will deny the interest
of the information this work yields. But the ways in which sleeping people show
themselves to wakened rationalists will finally not \"reveil\" what in particula
r goes on in the \"hole affair\" we went \"trough\" last night and which Pinneaa
ns Wake takes as its subject. In interesting ways, too, these studies highlight
the epistemological weirdness of all reconstructions of the night and so set Joy
ce's in foil. Since all those many animals whose sleep is accompanied by rapid-e
ye movements, when you wake them, have nothing very substantial to say about the
ir \"dreams,\" the real \"correlates\" of dreams-indeed, the only real evidence
of their existence-seems to lie less on eyelids than in the \"murmur[ies]\" and
strangely nonsensical tales \"re- mumble[d]\" by the people awakened: it's in la

nguage and in tales told, where it is unclear whether science or interpretive ar

t has primacy. And this Joyce would well have known. In one way of thinking abou
t the \"revolution\" that rocked the scientific world in the 19Sos, people disco
vered not so much \"rapid-eye movements,\" as the electroencephalograph and the
value ofstra- tegic awakenings. For \"rapid-eye movements\" were indistinctly th
ere all along, too-in- distinct because immeasurable. Joyce, of course, could no
t possibly have known about them in any quantifiable form when he wrote about \"
Bind- merollingeyes\" (I I .6-7 [the hero of Pinneaans Wake]) and suggested that
one good way of learning more about the \"floored\" \"mistermysterion\" in ques
tion would be to \"Look at this twitches!\" (301.18-19, 22-23 [all of them]). Bu
t details like these (and there are many) reflect how widely nineteenth- and ear
ly twentieth-century students of the dark believed that dreams and agitations of
the eyes in sleep went together-as those who write about REM sleep themselves p
eriodically acknowledge. 30 Most in- sights into the nature of dreams gained thr
ough \"the new science\" of sleep) 14) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
research had already been conjecturally formulated, though not electro- encephal
ographically clinched, in the literature on sleep written prior to their discove
ry and would easily have been within Joyce's reach. When Joyce advised his reade
rs to \"hear what science has to say,\" more- over (505.27), he was certainly no
t addressing an audience that would sud- denly vanish when new scientific discov
eries came along, ten years after his death. Writing in an age of great scientif
ic volatility himself, and modeling his book on one called The New Science, he w
as inviting them to ponder the contradiction-laden destiny of all \"science\" wh
ose dark object was \"nes- cience,\" or unconsciousness; for \"science\" (from t
he L. scio, \"I know\") can be of \"nescience\" (L. nescio, \"I don't know\") on
ly with difficulty. Beyond that too, he was calling attention to the inadequacie
s of science itself- \"pundit-the-next-best-king\"-as a way of \"knowing\" in a
world where aes- thesis and play were heavily beleaguered alternatives. So \"if
sciencium (what's what) can mute uns nought, 'a thought, abought the great Sommbaddy within the Omniboss\"-note the somme (Fr. \"sleep\") infusing this obscur
e \"somebody\"-\"perhops an artsaccord (hoot's hoot) might sing ums tumtim abutt
the Little Newbuddies that ring his panch\" (415.15-19). With a little laugh by
the way\" (hoot's hoot) ,\" the lines apprise us that Pinneaans Wake intends to
set us straight as to \"what's what\" and \"who's who.\ THE JOYCEAN \"UNGUMPTIO
US\" AND THEIRS As its spelling implies, the Joycean \"UNGUMPTIOUS\" has a lot o
f \"gumption\" and humor in it, and is both distinct from and yet related to the
\"Uncon- scious\" in more orthodox forms. As its appearance in the text also su
ggests, and as many Joyceans have compellingly demonstrated, there can be no que
stion that psychoanalysis had an impact, a deep one, on Pinneaans Wake: 31 the t
erm appears in a phrase directing our attention to \"LIPPUDENIES OF THE UNGUMPTI
OUS\" (308.R2 [a \"libidinous unconscious\"]), in a book that has the \"intrepid
ity\" to call itself \"an intrepidation of our dreams\" (338.29). Like all the m
any psychoanalytical tags drifting through Pinneaans Wake, these terms suggest s
imilarities and yet differences, both of which are im- portant to weigh. Mere me
ntion of Freud will raise hackles on one side of the room and ban- ners on the o
ther; but sleep alone will elicit a version of the same bizarre politics. Merely
having proposed as an exercise the reconstruction of a half- hour fragment of d
ark will already have raised in most minds unresolved) An Introduction) 15)))
questions on which there will be sides to take, and about which seasonably \"fas
hionable\" and unfashionable \"factions\" will form. A reader of Joyce would do
well to try cultivating an indifference to these partisanships, by paying attent
ion to the Wake itself: there we read that one must, \"for a sur- view over all
the factionables see Iris in the Evenine's World\" (285.26-27). The line invites
its reader to sort these matters out not by resorting to pro- grammatic respons
es, but by studying what is seen, \"in fact, under the closed eyes\" (107.28 [he
nce the \"iris\"]), in the \"Evening World\" (28.20 [the night]). It also sugges

ts that in exploring the \"Evening World,\" the Wake will, among all things else
, \"survey the factions\" that have politicized the same dark domain. It seems t
o me impossible for any reader seriously interested in coming to terms with Pinn
eaans Wake to ignore The Interpretation of Dreams, which broke the ground that J
oyce would reconstruct in his own \"intrepidation of dreams\" and, arguably, mad
e Pinneaans Wake possible: it was in the cultural air that any early twentieth-c
entury European would have breathed, and it is everywhere implicit in Joyce's \"
nonday diary.\" Its first chapter, not least, provides an excellent summary of t
he nineteenth-century literature on sleep and dreams, and those that follow have
not been surpassed in explor- ing what dreams mean and how they work. No subseq
uent treatment of the subject fails to show its influence. The book is important
to Pinneaans Wake, however, not simply because it treats so elaborately of Drea
ms, but because it is equally about Interpretation, which is any reader's only b
usi- ness; and it is about interpretation of a kind that unyieldingly brings the
simple and central question \"What does it mean?\" to a species of peculiarly n
onsensical, obscure, and garbled literary text-\"the text of the dream\" (ID, 55
2), the puzzling and troubling \"murmurrandoms\" (358.3) that any dreamer \"remu
mble[s] from the night before\" (note the \"random\" element in such \"murmured
memoranda\") Y Particularly because the only real evi- dence of \"dreaming\" com
es in the dark language of these \"murmurable\" \"murmoirs\" (294.7, 387.34 [\"m
emorable\" because \"murmured\" \"memoirs\"]), some interpretive technique disti
nct from those brought to bear on con- sciously constructed narratives will be e
ssential to a reading of what Joyce called his \"imitation of the dream-state\";
33 and The Interpretation of Dreams offers not simply the most intricately deve
loped and detailed example of such a technique, but also an account-no matter wh
ether critical or not- of alternative interpretive techniques as well. It is, in
short, an indispens- able text to bring to Pinneaans Wake. On the other hand, i
t would be foolish to disregard Joyce's well-known) 16) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK
derogations of Freud and \"the new Viennese school\" (U, 205): all of his re- co
rded comments on psychoanalysis were dismissive. 34 They suggest, per- haps, wha
t should be obvious: that both as a \"competent\" thinker and man- a \"competito
r\" and not a follower-and especially as an artist whose work consistently explo
red \"the inner life,\" Joyce was of necessity in competition with psychoanalysi
s, and all the more particularly because of its claims to authority. This much,
at least, is implied in remarks like the chastising aside he directed to Mary Co
lum when he heard that she was attending a series of lectures by Pierre Janet: \
"You could learn as much psychology from yourself as from those fellows. \"35 An
d why not? A great deal has been said about the heroism of Freud's self-analysis
, but relatively little about Joyce's, in the writing of Ulysses, which he regar
ded as \"essentially the product of [his] whole life\":36 it would be difficult
to conceive of anyone spending seven years on a text that heavily autobiographic
al, reworking on a daily basis the personal and literary past, without emerging
from the experience radically changed. One way of reading Ulysses, a work themat
ically ab- sorbed with the issues of fathering and self-fathering, is to see it
as the pro- cess whereby an arrogant little man, a young Joyce who in fact had p
ub- lished under the name \"Stephen Dedalus,\" rewrote himself so entirely as to
emerge from the experience not simply with the humane capabilities of a Leopold
Bloom, and not simply even with the expansive good humor and affability that ev
ery reader of the biography will know, but as one of the twentieth century's gre
at men of letters. The book, through its microscopic examination of the inner li
fe, altered the past in every way possibleY It would do Joyce insufficient credi
t, then, to read Pinneaans Wake as a \"creative\" reworking of understandings th
at might be had much more straightforwardly through a reading of Freud, and not
simply because Joyce clearly went about reconstructing the night in his own idio
syncratic way, but also because if most of the night is void of recollectible dr
eams, a work aspiring to their interpretation would be only of partial relevance
. 38 Joyce thought about psychic interiors throughout his literary career and ab

out \"nightlife\" daily for almost twenty years (150.33, 407.20). It was his wor
k. As an author who distrusted authority in all its forms, he preferred to all t
heory nagging, living, concrete immersion in the material under his scru- tiny i
tself (\"I hate generalities\" [ll, 565]). If, as he said, \"Ulysses is related
to this book as the day is to the night,\" we should expect Finneaans Wake to be
have with all the uncapturable richness of a Ulysses, exploring its dark subject
thoroughly, systematically, but not systemically.39 Finally, too, as Joyce's co
mparative remarks on Freud and Vico suggest, his real authority in) An Introduct
ion) 17)))
the study of the unconscious was Vico, and even here he distanced himself carefu
lly (\"I would not pay overmuch attention to these theories, beyond using them f
or all they are worth\" [L, 1,241]).40 All this is only to note that joyce's vex
ed relation to Freud is sufficiently complex as not to be solved by oppositional
diatribe, doctrinaire advocacy, or, above all, simple disregard. \"The relation
of Ulysses and Pinneaans Wake to [The Interpretation ofDreaills] is tricky and
subtle,\" as Adaline Glasheen has rightly noted, \"and deserves the fullest, dee
pest study.\"41 Ongoing refer- ence to The Interpretation ofDreaills and its seq
uelae in the following pages is intended to open relevant perspectives and to in
vite running comparisons between joyce's \"UNGUMPTIOUS\" and the Freudian one. I
would like the reader to see in these conflations a joycean reading of Freud, a
nd not a Freudian reading of Joyce.) \"EPISTLEMADETHEMOLOGY FOR DEEP DORFY DOUBT
LINGS\ Early in the course of our \"unaveiling\" reconstruction of a half-hour f
rag- ment of the dark, the healthily skeptical reader will have wondered how any
one could possibly know what goes on in a part of the night unyielding to \"m'm'
ry\" and resistant in every way to any form of direct knowing. Par- ticularly fo
r a writer of joyce's realist allegiances, the question would have raised larger
questions about how one knows-anything. Capable as one may be in wakefulness of
explicating allusions, for instance, or speaking cannily about the collapse ofr
epresentational epistemologies, it would seem a genuine deficiency in any claim
to knowledge not to know the content of one's own head in an wholly representati
ve slice of \"Real life\" (260.F3). \"Writing about the night,\" then, would hav
e deepened in its purport for joyce, and also in its obscurity, because it would
have meant not simply gen- erating a \"nonday diary,\" but concurrently underta
king a sustained \"epis- tlemadethemology for deep dorfy doubtlings\" (374.17-18
)-a phrase that yields \"two thinks at a time\" (583.7). Pinneaans Wake launches
on a dark \"epistemology,\" to be sure, bending the questions \"How do I know?\
" (507.24) and \"Where did thots come from?\" (597.25 [\"thoughts\"]) into \"one
great part of [our] existence\" about which we must willingly entertain \"deep
doubts\"-and \"dorfy\" ones, at that. But it is also, as an \"epistle-made\" artifact, an \"epistlemadethemology\" in which the status of language and letters
(\"epistles\") will unrelentingly be \"made [a] theme.\ 18) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE
Although it is currently one trend to see Pinneaans Wake as a work \"about langu
age\"-and it surely is-Joyce himself, whenever he was asked to clar- ify the boo
k, problematically said that it was \"about the night.\" This minor discrepancy
as to what the book is \"about\" is extremely important, as the following pages
intend to show; for while a book \"about language\" need say nothing at all \"ab
out the night,\" and in fact usually will not, a book \"about the night\" would
of necessity have to undertake an intricate and won- drously obscure inquiry int
o the nature of language. \"My heeders will recoil with a great leisure\" (160.3
5 [not \"recall,\" not necessarily \"pleasure\"]) that big \"blank memory\" left
suspended in their heads after last night's orgy of \"leisure.\" Why do no word
s leap into the gap and fill this roomy space? \"If that [one] hids foreaodden h
as nate of alozery\" (339.24 [\"has forgotten his night of glory\"]), is it beca
use one has also \"forgotten his native glossary\"? If the experience of sleep e
ntails the wholesale rubbling of language, out of what dark place in the mind do

those \"murmurable\" \"murmurrandoms\" that we \"recoil\" in the morning come f

rom? The fullest possible response to the question of what happens to (literate)
consciousness in the night-\"Something happened that time I was asleep, torn le
tters or was there snow?\" (307.FS)-would oblige us to wonder, at least if we th
ink it improbable that language ever suddenly vacates the head, whether letters
and literacy fell into a strange new order in the dark, like \"torn letters\"; o
r if sleep merely blanketed everything over, as if under a bleaching fall of \"s
now\" (\"We feel unspeechably thoughtless over it all here. . . \" [238.36]). In
this latter case, the question would arise of how language could possibly captu
re the nothing that language, constantly about something, is not. For not the le
ast obscure matter pertaining to our experimental reconstruction, in detail, of
a half-hour of the night-pre- suming we could replace a profoundly \"blank memor
y\" with \"somethink\" (83.14)-would be the question of what kind oflanguage cou
ld adequately fill the spaciously \"hole affair.\" English?-with words like \"me
mory\" and \"recall,\" which are always of something? \"Languish\" too, then, is
what Pin- neaans Wake is necessarily about (96. II, 232.21 [\"language\"]), but
pri- marily because it is \"about the night.\" And in an already doubt-riddled
\"epistlemadethemology,\" letters-\"epistles\" and words-will be an ongoing \"th
ematic\" concern. As to the question of how Joyce in particular could possibly k
now the in- terior of the nigh t, we have the difficult evidence of Pinneaans Wa
ke itself to examine, but also oblique indications from the biography and the le
tters. All the evidence shows Joyce entering this area with extreme caution. He)
An Introduction) 19)))
began to write Work in Proaress in March 1923, in English, tentatively, unclear
as to where it would lead him U], 55!); and it took him the better part of a yea
r, by the end of which he had sketched out half the book, to show the newly evol
ving work to anyone but his immediate friends, and then too, only tentatively (\
"May I ask you, by the way, to be rather reticent about my new book?\" he wrote
to Valery Larbaud [L, III, 87-88J). Nothing indicates that Joyce knew his \"expe
riment in interpreting 'the dark night of the soul''' (L, I, 258) would exhaust
two decades of his life, half of his liter- ary career, and the odd resources of
some sixty languages. Only as he warmed to his material did he begin to realize
the depth and extent of its obscurities, and these obviously challenged and all
ured him, but also frus- trated him immensely: \"The task I have set myself is d
readfully difficult,\" he wrote to Robert MacAlmon in early 1924, \"but I believ
e it can be done\" (L, III, 88). And to Harriet Shaw Weaver in the same year: \"
There are so many problems to be solved that I can face only one at a time\" (L,
111,96); \"I have been thinking and thinking how and how and how can I and can'
t it\" (L, I, 220); \"It is a bewildering business. . . . Complications to right
of me, com- plications to left of me, complex on the page before me, perplex in
the pen beside me, duplex in the meandering eyes of me, stuplex on the face tha
t reads me. And from time to time I lie back and listen to the sound of my hair
growing white\" (L, 1,222). Nobody took these laments seriously; every- body tho
ught he was dramatizing himself while really only doodling around with puns, ind
ulgently parading the emptiest of eruditions, or inventing some kind of private
mythology. Joyce: \"I am rather discouraged about this as in such a vast and dif
ficult enterprise I need encouragement. . . . but I cannot go back\" (L, I, 249)
. Frank Budgen recalls being told by August Suter that \"in the early days of th
e composition of Finneaans Wake,\" Joyce said, \"I am boring into a moun- tain f
rom two sides. The question is how to meet in the middle. \"42 Suter recalls the
formulation differently: when he asked Joyce about his new work, Joyce replied,
\"imagine a mountain which I am boring into from all sides without knowing what
I am going to find. \"43 The comparison was to become a well-worked favorite, v
arying in form with the state of the work, and in these guises show Joyce thinki
ng about the night much as anyone only can;44 for what happens \"down there\" ca
n be inferred most clearly by working out of the two well-lit shafts through whi
ch one enters and leaves it, while falling asleep and waking up-although dreams
pock the dark with innumerable random obscure points of entry. As the Wake puts

it, of a hero obscurely called\" The Bearded Mountain\" (222.12), \"there are tw
o signs) 20) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
to turn to, the yest and the ist, . . . feeling aslip and wauking up\" (597.1012): \"the yest\" here is where night fell and where \"yest\"erday disintegrated
(\"the west\,") while \"ist\" (or \"east\") is where the day will break, and wh
ere the present always reappears (\"is\. One of these two openings had already b
een amply cleared away, for two of Joyce's earlier three works of fiction had co
me to deadends at the thresh- hold beyond which Finneaans Wake was darkly to mov
e. At the end of \"The Dead,\" \"faintly falling\" asleep in the Gresham Hotel,
Gabriel Conroy feels \"his own identity. . . fading out\" as a reverie of snow d
rifts into his mind, to change his mind and the texture of the story as well (D,
223-24); and at the end of Ulysses, Joyce sought comparably \"to convey the mum
bling of a woman falling asleep. \"45 To note that Joyce's fiction pressed repea
tedly against the dark borderland separating wakefulness from sleep is only to n
ote one necessity that compelled him into the writing of the Wake- which, after
all, is only an inflected synonym for \"The Dead.\" A second necessity was the f
act of Ulysses itself, through which, according to T. S. Eliot, Joyce \"killed t
he nineteenth century, exposed the futility of all styles, and destroyed his own
future\" U], 528). What could Joyce have done after writing Ulysses? A chronicl
e of June 17, 1904? Or a sweeping saga of three generations of family life whose
culminating item would be a writer dense with sensitivity? The logical place fo
r him to go was down, into the night. \"Having written Ulysses about the day, I
wanted to write this book about the night\" U], 695). The intensity with which J
oyce studied dreams, read about dreams, and discussed dreams with family members
and friends has been broadly docu- mented. 46 Jacques Mercanton, who is suppose
d to have become the official expositor of Finneaans Wake had Joyce lived U], 71
0), makes it seem in his recollection of Joyce that the going over of dreams may
have been the first order of business of every day.47 But it clearly went furth
er even than this: stray remarks in his letters show Joyce waking up at night, s
cribbling on paper in the dark, and falling back asleep: \"I composed some wondr
ous de- vices for Ad during the night,\" he informed Harriet Shaw Weaver, \"and
wrote them out in the dark very carefully only to discover that I had made a mos
aic on top of other notes so I am now going to have to bring my as- tronomical t
elescope into play\" (L, I, 235). Already he was teaching her, everywhere in the
letters, how to read Pinneaans Wake: \"astronomical tele- scopes,\" unlike regu
lar ones, work only at night, and they train on matters invisible to the light o
f day; they do what Joyce does in \"his book of the dark.\" No amount of general
izing or mere assertion, however, will ulti-) An Introduction) 21)))
mately persuade anyone of anything. The only evidence that will show just how mu
ch Joyce thought and learned about the night is Pinneaans Wake itself, \"the Str
angest Dream that was ever Halfdreamt\" (307. I 1- 12).) \"SLEEP, WHERE IN THE W
ASTE IS THE WISDOM?\ Somewhere very early in a meditation of this sort, the busi
ly put-upon reader will doubtlessly have paused to wonder why all of this should
be im- portant enough to merit his attention and time. Since the \"hole affair\
" \"amounts to nada in pounds or pence\" (S2I.S-6)-since it defies \"sound sense
\" and is not very profitable either (hence the \"pounds\" and \"pence\, he will
likely want to ask of \"Sleep, where in the waste is the wisdom?\" (114.19-20).
Though the only fully satisfactory answer to this question can be a reading of
Pinneaans Wake, we might for now entertain a few orienting considerations. Write
rs who deal with the subject are fond of pointing out that we spend one-third of
our lives in sleep. The unyielding fraction, as anyone who has tried unsuccessf
ully to conform to a regulated eight-hour sleep schedule knows, is finally arbit
rary, deriving from an Aristotelean partitioning of the day into three equal thi
rds of which one seems \"reasonably\" appropriate to the night. But the fraction
is not simply arbitrary; it's conservative. 48 For the forces that tow us into
sleep, arguably, are always there under the surface of things, exerting an obliv

iating drag on our capacities to engage resource- fully and energetically in the
world, blacking us out not just in those lengthy amnesias endured every night,
but-an eyelid drooping here, attention lapsing there, best intentions crumbling
everywhere-in the less noticeable amnesias, lapses of attentiveness, surrenders
to passivity, and withdrawals from life that undermine the living of any day. So
mething of this nature surely overcomes Mr. Bloom, for instance, at IO o'clock o
n a hot summer morning, when, theoretically well rested, he can barely bring him
self to re- gard the world from \"beneath his veiled eyelids\" because the news
of an un- manageable problem has left him sluggishly stupefied and stunned, in l
otus-land (U, 74; note also his eyelids on 71, 75). \"Nowtime\" is just a variant of \"nighttime,\" according to one of the Wake's careful spellings (290.17)
as \"night\" is just \"nowt\" (238.27). That big \"blank memory\" that we have a
ll \"recoil[ed]\" from \"our own nighttime,\" after all, did not simply vanish w
hen night did; the roomily \"hole affair\" lingers on vexingly, now, very) 22) J
much a part of our present minds. If one-third of our lives is spent in sleep, t
hen, so too one-third of us is never fully in the here-and-now. Inviting us to b
e conscious of the unconscious, or, in its own idiom, wakening the dead, Finneaa
ns Wake wakes us up to the dark third of us that never comes to ligh t. At a com
plementary extreme, there are the forces that work against sleep. Toward the wak
ing end of Pinneaans Wake, its reader meets a figure who is given to venting, us
ually with great moral urgency, alarming state- ments on the order of \"I'm the
gogetter that'd make it pay like cash regis- ters\" (451.4-5) and \"I've a terri
ble errible lot todue todie todue tootorrible- day\" (381.23-24). He represents,
among much else, that part of the Wake's sleeping mind whose anxiety about quot
idian survival-making rational sound sense and tons of pounds and pence-is alarm
ing him up into agony. The huffy-puffy rhythm tells it all: everyone is under pr
essure, \"to do\" \"to- day\" what's \"due today,\" in \"terror\" and \"error\"
and \"horror,\" without per- haps stopping to wonder why all that pressure need
be there, or where in one's life it originates. Sleep is what someone in this fr
ame of mind doesn't want to think about, hasn't the time to think about, and can
't afford to in- dulge in because of competing demands on his time and attention
(\"cash registers,\" \"the cash system,\" and the whole \"cash-dime problem,\"
for ex- ample [161.7, 149.17]): \"Dollarmighty!\" (562.33). Sleep is a sheer, un
profit- able \"waste of time\" (ISI.2I). Still, since \"today\" is only \"todie\
" in the terms given-since one's management of the limited amount of time in a d
ay is only representative of one's management of the limited amount of time in a
life-it may well be important to think about the night and one's dreams, before
\"today\" slips into \"to die,\" and to determine too where those pressurizing,
sleep-annihilating demands come from and whether they need be met. Sleep unfold
s in \"the darkness which is the afterthought of thy nomatter\" (258.32-33): to
all quotidian appearances, it is absolutely trivial, a little \"after-thought\"
\"of no great matter\" to much of anyone-particularly with all those \"cash regi
sters\" in the background sonorously indicating what val- ues are to be assigned
to what things. Living as we do in a world where there are all kinds of pounds
and pence and sounds and sense to make, we all mean business, if not literally.
Who has time to think about the night in the morning when something else is alwa
ys judged to be more centrally press- ing? Wondering who makes these decisions a
s to what has value and what does not would in itself have fascinated Joyce, and
also would have let him exercise a modernist inclination to detect precisely in
the trivial-a single) An Introduction) 23)))
day, for example-the richest of revelations. Sleep is the underside of the stone
on whose sunlit upper surface is engraved the letter and the law of the land: n
o one wants to look at it. It is so trivial, so marginal, so unthinkable an \"af
terthought of thy nomatter,\" in fact, that even people writing about dreams and
the centrality of the marginal and Pinneaans Wake seem quite happy to overlook

it, as if there were nothing there. So Joyce, \"having done the longest day in l
iterature\"-in wording he co-opted from his brother- began \"conjuring up the da
rkest night\" (L, III, 140), and for many good rea- sons: as we follow him into
\"our own nighttime,\" we find there, as intri- cately writ as anywhere else, \"
as human a little story as paper could well carry\" (IIS.36). Within Pinneaans W
ake, Joyce refers to his sleepy subject as \"the moun- tainy molehill\" (474.22)
: the phrase advises us that he knew quite well how big a \"mountain\" he was ma
king out of a \"molehill\" by writing six hundred pages, over two decades, \"abo
ut the night\"; but it also serves notice that he found in the visionless and su
bterranean experience of sleep (a \"molehill\" of sorts) a vast \"mountain\" of
material. By tunneling into this \"mountain,\" Joyce not simply mined open the t
wentieth-century's analytical fascination with sleep, dreams, and the Unconsciou
s, but developed as well a modern- ist eschatology (Gr. eschatos, \"furthest, ut
termost\:") \"modernist\" because his efforts located in a trivial\" afterthough
t of thy nomatter,\" in the abso- lutely unthinkable, precisely what is most apo
calyptic and revealing about the precariously instituted order of things; an \"e
schatology\" because it sends knowledge and thought to their limits and uttermos
t ends. Even if one wanted to and had the time, sleep is what one cannot think a
bout because it unfolds in a bottomless fissure within which thinking and all ou
r quotidian ways of knowing disappear. At its interior, every epis- temological
category on which the novel, science, and empiricism are tra- ditionally predica
ted-indeed, the totality of \"the real\"-crumbles into rich indefinition, and va
nishes; and so too does \"common sense.\" \"Common sense,\" then, tells us that
everything about Pinneaans Wake must neces- sarily lie outside the pale of \"com
mon sense\": no two people can ever em- pirically \"sense\" a dream in \"common,
\" and it isn't even clear that one can. Still, if we heed with Joyce \"The Valu
e of Circumstantial Evidence\" (307.24 [\"dreams,\" for example]), boring into t
he core of the dark from its two fa- miliar well-lit wakened edges, much might b
e inferred about the heart of the night. The best guide to Pinneaans Wake is con
centrated reflection on \"our own nighttime.\" Joyce told Jacques Mercanton that
he countered criticism ofthe) 24) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
book by saying that \"it ha[d] to do with an ideal suffering caused by an ideal
insomnia. A sentence in the book describes it in those terms\" [120.9- 14].49 Si
nce \"ideal insomnia\" differs from real insomnia by virtue of its ideality, the
sentence is inviting us to be thoughtfully vigilant \"in our own night- time\"
and complementarily thoughtful in wakefulness about \"how we sleep\" (248.19). A
nyone wanting seriously to read Pinnesans Wake must at some point go to \"nights
chool\" (430.2), take a few \"Night Lessons\" (ILii), do a little \"nightwatch s
ervice\" (576.30), exercise some \"night duty\" (429.23), serve on \"the vigilan
ce committee\" (34.4), and, above all, \"sleep on it\" (445.22-23). All of the c
haracters inside the book do these things, and so did Joyce himself: \"I am at p
resent attending night school,\" he wrote jokingly to his son and daughter-in-la
w in 1934, and then went on to close the letter with a characteristic tag: \"Goo
d night, dear children. Nightynight everybody\" (L, III, 320-21). Only daily ref
erence to the \"hole affair\" you went \"trough\" last night will clarify this m
ost \"clearobscure\" of books. It was Joyce's lifelong rival, Doctor Oliver St.
John Gogarty, who first re- acted in exasperated disbelief to Pinneaans Wake by
calling it \"the most co- lossalleg-pull in literature since McPherson's Ossian.
\"so But even its most se- rious readers seem tacitly to have assumed that Joyce
was only kidding when he said it was \"about the night.\" The real obstacle to
our comprehen- sion of Finneaans Wake since its publication, in my view, has bee
n a reluc- tance on the part of readers to think seriously about the very strang
e, liter- ally unthinkable, and only apparently trivial material that it richly
explores. As a consequence, Joyce's own many assertions about the book-his \"rec
on- struct[ion of] the nocturnal life\" and \"imitation of the dream-state\" -ha
ve been dismissed out-of-hand as improbable, or else explained away either as \"
conceits\" that Joyce found useful for his own eccentric purposes, or as im- pre
ssionistic \"devices\" that in practice have licensed interpretive mayhem on the

one extreme hand and pedantic irrelevance on the other. As one con- sequence, t
he text perhaps most widely regarded as the great monolithic obstacle to our und
erstanding of modernism has remained inaccessibly ob- scure since its publicatio
n in 1939-and not simply to the interested lay reader, but to many Joyceans as w
ell. It is time that the putative bluff was called, and shown to be no bluff at
all. Pinneaans Wake is about \"the night we will remember\" (432. 1-2) . \"But w
e'll wake and see\" (375.8).) An Introduction) 25)))
CHAPTER) ONE) \"Readina the Evenina World\ Any reader can extend his own reflect
ions on the night into a \"reading [of the] Evening World\" literately reconstru
cted in Pinneaans Wake (28.20) sim- ply by examining the book's opening pages. I
f the Wake indeed \"reconstructs the night,\" this area ought theoretically to p
ortray the irrecollectible \"thought\" moving through sleep in the first few min
utes after the loss of conscious thought in bed; and it ought, ideally, to confo
rm with some plau- sibility to our shared sense of what that experience is like.
Immediate concessions to \"common sense,\" then, and to what critics skeptical
of Finnesans Wake have always maintained would not be out of order: most of what
one finds here is as impenetrably obscure as the \"blank memory\" \"recoil[ed]\
" from the early part of last night's sleep; whole vast spaces on the page make
absolute nonsense. The essentially English first paragraph, to be sure, yields d
im impressions: references to places in Dublin seem to have been unhinged from t
heir local mooring points and rendered diffuse-\"Adam and Eve's\" Church inverte
d into a more oddly evocative \"Eve and Adam's,\" the Liffey and Dublin Bay losi
ng their concreteness in the looser terms \"riverrun\" and \"bay.\" Propped up b
y that undeniably opaque second paragraph, however, these few clear impressions
fall outside of any context that might render them intelligible; and appeals to
authority will not necessarily help here either. Other readers may have detected
\"the voice of God,\" allegories involving the Holy Name, or clever puns in the
Sanskrit here, but perhaps we do nOLI And even if we consult the available refe
rence) 26)))
works and have the allusions and foreign words explicated for us, they only rend
er what is already unintelligible a little more clearly unintelligible. None of
this matters in the least. If one operates on the premise that Pin- neaans Wake
reconstructs the night, the first preconception to abandon wholesale is that it
ought to read anything at all like narrative or make sense as a continuous linea
r whole: nobody's \"nightlife\" makes sense as a continuous linear narrative who
le (150.33, 407.20). Just as it is impossible to recall, minute by minute, in se
quential order, the \"hole affair\" that one went through in sleep last night, f
rom the time one lost consciousness until the time one awoke, so, arguably, it i
s impossible to read Pinneaans Wake. Instead, the book makes sense only in much
the same way that \"everynight life\" does (17.33). Impossible as it may be to f
athom as an obscure totality, even at the level of a page, particles of immanent
sense will stand out from the dark foil against which they are set, in turn to
suggest connections with others, and still others, until-not necessarily in line
ar order-out of a web of items drawn together by association, a knot of coherent
nonsense will be- gin to emerge;2 and upon this coherent nonsense, as upon the
shards of a recollected dream, some interpretation will have to be practiced in
order to discover an underlying sense. \"Reading [the] Evening World\" as it is
recon- structed in Pinneaans Wake is like reading the evening world as one knows
it in fact. This is also to note that any point of entry into this \"book of th
e dark\" will inevitably be arbitrary and confusing-as Joyce himself im- plicitl
y acknowledged by pointing out that \"the book really has no begin- ning or end.
. . . It ends in the middle of a sentence and begins in the middle of the same
sentence\" (L, I, 246). One can, given these terms, start \"reading [the] Evenin
g World\" in much the same way that one starts exploring any memory of the night
: anywhere. For demonstrative purposes, this reading will momentarily bypass alt
ogether the first two murky paragraphs of the book to begin in its third paragra

ph:) The fall (ba ba badalgharagh takamminarronnkonnbronn tonnerronn tuonn thunn

- trovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is re
- taled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy. Th
e great fall of the offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Finn
egan. erse solid man, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends an unqui
ring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes: and their upturnpikepoi
ntandplace is at the knock out in the park where oranges have been laid to rust
upon the green since devlinsfirst loved livvy. (3.15-24)) The paragraph locates
us \"in bed\"-\"early\"-though it does so in a man- ner quite \"clearobscure\" (
247.34). For all the book's purported verbal in- stability, virtually every page
of Pinneaans Wake refers comparably to \"bed\ \"Readina the Evenina World\ 27))
(5.20,6.26), or to \"night\" (7.2), or to things associated with a night in bed:
to \"dusk\" (4.12), \"eve\" (S.II), peaceful rest (6.35), \"slumber\" (7.21), \
"sun- set\" (9.2), even snoring and pillows (7.28, 6.24). Although these sleeporienting terms, deployed more often than not in plain English, permeate the boo
k and give it one kind of centricity, they enter the Wake's \"night- maze\" so o
bliquely (411.8), with such eccentricity, that they become, as here, almost unno
ticeable-as if they were negligible after-thoughts of no great matter (notice ho
w unnoticeable this \"bed\" becomes at 18.18, \"sleep\" at 4.15, and \"Nap\" at
9.6). Arguably, the phrase \"in bed\" is as obscure a term as any other in the p
aragraph before us, precisely because it eludes atten- tion-and in much the same
way that an interval of sleep might elude at- tention in waking life, a part of
the whole, linking the whole, too trivial to bear much more than an \"afterthou
ght of thy nomatter\" when so much else seems of greater urgency (258.32-33). Wh
o can notice this bed with that hundred-lettered word overpowering it by its pro
ximity? \"It's like a dream,\" in which many a \"goodridhirring\" (7.19 [\"good
red herring\"J) operates to distract attention from what may be most eccentrical
ly central. If \"precisely the most trivial elements of a dream are most indispe
nsable to its inter- pretation\" (ill, 552), however, a little attention ought t
o be expended here too. The phrase \"in bed\" will serve illustratively, as an o
rienting point out of which all other elements on this page-and on all those pag
es that surround it in this circular book-might be seen to radiate by a logic of
association. In this nocturnal universe where\" Totem Pulcrum Est\" (481.4 [L.
totum ful- crum est, \"all is bed\"]), it yields one kind of leverage on the dar
k. The paragraph's location in bed will likely seem obscure to a reader, but onl
y because that bed is almost entirely obscure to the formerly solid (\"erst soli
d\,") once upright (\"once wallstrai t\") Irishman ( \"erse. . . man\") who is l
aid to rest in it (\"laid to rust\") and who, no longer either solid or upright,
seems to have sustained a very serious fall (\"The fall,\" \"the great fall,\"
\"the pftjschute\" [Fr. chute, \"fall\"]). Perhaps only a minute ago our rubbled
hero could have identified his head and feet with as much proud precision as an
y wakeful rationalist, and in several languages too. Now he hasn't the vaguest a
wareness of their location, of their relation either to each other or to him- se
lf, or quite fully of their existence; the paragraph resolves as a muddily blurr
ed \"humptyhillhead\" sends sensory inquiries outward in space in quest of the t
oes to which it is presumably attached, and not simply overshoots the mark by mi
les, but even when all sensation is \"laid to rust,\" finds no clear object. Any
head so oblivious of its personal and spatial attachment to its own \"tumptytum
toes\" will likely be oblivious of itself. Normally full of) 28) JOYCE'S BOOK OF
inquiry, in fact, our hero's inert head is now largely capable only of \"un- qui
ry\"; the negation (\"un-\") of \"inquiry,\" this would be the absence of the ca
pacity to inquire at all. Together, these details begin to illustrate a whole ne
gational mannerism of the Wake's language, and, as put to play here, they yield
the first of in- numerable moments in the book that will be preoccupied with mis

sing per- sons (324.18-22), missing bodies (66.28ff., 291. 15), lost properties
(556.26- 27), headhunting (497.7), and so forth. They simply tell us that the \"
unquir- ing\" humanoid \"laid to rust\" \"in bed\" here is unconscious-unconscio
us, in particular, of the existence and extension of his body as an object in sp
ace. Who knows, in the middle of sleep, where his head and toes are or even that
they exist? We might see the paragraph murkily beginning to \"represent,\" then
, from his own internal point of view, \"mun in his natural, oblious au- tamnesi
cally of his very proprium\" (2SI.4-s)-a \"man,\" that is, \"in the state of nat
ure\" (49.24-25), \"obviously\" \"oblivious\" \"of his very proprium\" (L. every
thing his \"own\") because he is \"making act of oblivion\" (424.18-19) and unde
rgoing sleep's \"auto-amnesic\" \"blackout\" (617.14 [Gr. autamnesia, \"obliviou
sness of self\"]). Since \"point of view\" would hardly be the most accurate ter
m to apply to anyone oblivious of his head and toes, however, it might be more a
ccurate to think of the paragraph replicating the \"eyewitless foggus\" (515.30)
of this \"unquiring one\"-where an \"eyewitless foggus,\" the negation of an \"
eyewitness focus\" or clear point of view, would yield only an \"eyeless\" and \
"witless\" gaze through \"fog\" into \"the darkness which is the afterthought of
thy nomatter\" (258.32-33). Sleep happens only in un- consciousness, in \"unqui
ry,\" \"after thought\" shuts off, and annihilating space, it locates us in a do
main where there is \"no matter\": \"I've lost the place, where was I?\" (307.F4
). In turn, we might see the paragraph beginning to introduce the subject of Pin
neaans Wake, who, \"if I may break the subject gently\" (165.30), has \"tropped
head\" (34.6) -\" dropped head, \" that is, almost as fully as if\" dropped dead
,\" largely because there was \"too much\" of it there to begin with (It. troppo
, Fr. trop). And an \"unquiry\" related to the one evident on the open- ing page
will introduce us more formally to this \"unquiring one\" and to his peculiar m
ode of \"thought\": \"Who do you no tonigh, lazy and gentleman?\" (126.2). As th
e wording here suggests, all \"unquiry\" looms dopily in on a single person (a \
"lazy gentleman\") who is sleeping (\"tonight\,") void of sex- ual identity (\"l
azy and gentleman\,") and largely oblivious of his own proxi- mate presence to h
imself in space (\"to nigh\.") \"Who do you no\" (\"know\ tells us that he doesn
't (\"know\") because he is unconscious-as throughout) \"Readina the Evenina Wor
ld\ 29)))
Pinneaans Wake, which more than once spells \"know\" \"no.\" Like the \"un- quir
y\" of which we read on page three, then, this one is less a \"query\" than a \"
queery\"; indeed, \"It am queery!\" (S12.33)-where the syntactical distor- tion
of third person (\" It is a query\") to first (\" I am queer\") implies that all
such \"unquiries\" emanate from the mind of a very singular first person in- de
ed, and drift back into himself. The relation of our \"unquiring\" subject to th
e manifold objects arrayed around him in the paragraph under our attention is ac
cordingly complex. For as he lies \"in bed,\" his \"tropped head\" questing vaca
ntly for the toes to which it is ordinarily attached, a murky landscape \"turns
up\" in their \"place\" (\" upturnpikepointandplace\.") As the commentary on Fin
neaans Wake has made too clear, this landscape seems to stretch across Dublin fr
om the Hill of Howth (or Howth Head [\"-hillhead\"J), westward to Castle Knock,
once the site of a \"turnpike,\" at the western border of the Phoenix Park (\"we
ll to the west,\" \"upturnpikepointandplace, \" \"the knock out in the park\.")
These localities and others named in Pinneaans Wake are repre- sented in Map A,
which depicts the greater Dublin area, the \"Howth Castle and Environs\" of 3.3,
within which all of Pinneaans Wake remotely takes place. But only remotely and
only evidently. For anyone oblivious of the location of his own head and toes-th
e closest few objects in the world-is surely oblivious of the civic landmarks th
at lie outside of his disintegrated bedroom; and our hero (a \"host,\" or barten
der as it will turn out) is here as throughout Pinneaans Wake \"obliffious of th
e headth of hosth that rosed be- fore him, from Sheeroskouro . . . like a dun da
rting dull emitter\" (317.32- 34) . The wording here tells us that the sleep-sap
ped head of our host (\" head th of hosth\") lies heavily there at the back of h
is mind, solid as a rock, the Head of Howth (\"headth of hosth\,") or any of the

Dolomite Alps (\"dull- emitter\;") but also that this inertly \"tropped head\"
is largely \"oblivious\" of itself and of all such objects in the world around i
t as the Liffey (\"obliff-\, the \"headth ofhosth,\" and Dublin (\"dun darting d
ullemitter\" suggests Lady Morgan's phrase, \"Dear Dirty Dublin\.") This is beca
use sleep has rendered it an extremely \"dull emitter,\" incapable of much thoug
ht, though none- theless able to bleed out weak appearances in that dark (\"dun\
,") flicker- ing (\"darting\,") \"sheerly obscure\" form of chiaroscuro (\"Sheer
oskouro\ known as the dream. The objects and landforms \"dully emitted\" within
our hero's \"unquiring\" and \"tropped head,\" then, have more the status of \"i
m- passible abjects\" (340.5) than of \"passible objects\" proper: degraded and
emotionalized forms (\"abjects\,") \"impassible\" to anyone outside of the sleep
ing mind within which they appear, they have no \"possible\" existence) 30) JOYC
in a reality collectively visible, as any nominalist would agree. There is no su
ch \"thing\" as a \"humptyhillhead\" or a \"pftjschute\" (\"Whoevery heard of su
ch a think?\" [46o. 16J) because both are more in the nature of \"thinks\" than
\"things\" (583.7; d. 83.14, 242.4). Rather than lying \"out there,\" in Car- te
sian space or in a Dublin objectively capturable in \"facts,\" they aggregate \"
in here,\" internal to our \"unquiring\" hero, of whom they are accordingly dist
orted descriptions. If, then, \"by a commodius vicus of recirculation\" (3.2), w
e \"rearrive\" at (3.5) any number of details already examined in the paragraph
under our scrutiny, we'll find them taking on a whole new range of meanings. And
what initially seemed sheer \"disorder\" will begin to re- solve not simply int
o a \"fine artful disorder\" (126.9), but into a clear and elegant \"thisorder\"
(54\302\260.19): \"it's like a dream.\" That \"knock out in the park,\" for ins
tance, no more clearly refers to \"Castle Knock\" than it does to a \"knock out\
" pure and simple. Another cipher designating the unconsciousness of the figure
\"laid to rust\" \"in bed\" here, it shows him \"kayoed\" (85.4 [\"K.O. 'd\"J) \"knocked out\"-\"parked\" (454.34): a \"knockout\" \"in these parks\" (505.34,
606.24) had rendered our \"pacific subject,\" \"as close as made no matter\" (85
.4-7), \"unspeechably thoughtless over it all\" (238.36). While \"hillhead\" see
ms comparably to re- fer to the \"Hill\" of Howth on Howth \"Head,\" the suppres
sed and linking term \"Howth\" derives from the Dana-Viking word hoved (\"head\,
") so that \"Howth Head,\" literally signifying \"head head,\" would refer back
to our \"knock[edJ out\" hero's \"large big nonobli head\" (64.30 [L. non oblitu
s, \"not quite obliviated\"J) with stubbornly loopy determination: \"Howth Head,
\" meaning \"head head,\" refers throughout Pinneaans Wake as invariably to our
\"knock[edJ out\" \"dull emitter's\" \"trapped head\" as to anything percep- tib
le in waking life. 3 Since, \"on that same head\" (471.29), the dark ground that
\"selfstretches\" (14.31 [anthropomorphically]) between the \"knock[edJ out\" a
nd his \"tropped head\" is largely identified here as \"the park\"-Phoe- nix-we
can infer that the peculiar mound of imaginary \"no matter\" sur- veyed in this
paragraph, however inertly stratified it may seem, is furtively charged with the
potential of imminent and flashy resurrection. \"Laid to rust\" here, in other
words, is simply the body of a man in bed, which will rise in the morning when,
phoenixlike, he wakes. It is only at that time- when he \"gets the pullover on h
is boots\" (74.12), and starts ambulating groggily around his bedroom-that \"the
headless shall have legs!\" (471. 15). All this is only to begin noting that th
e apparent content of the paragraph we are examining-or of any other paragraph i
n Pinneaans Wake-resembles exactly the \"manifest content\" of a dream in being
only a \"goodridhirring\ \"Readina the Evenina World\ 3 1)))
MapA \"Howth Castle and Environs\" (3.3) . Dublin by Daylight) Dunsink (Observat
ory)) FingL) River Tolka) \"Lucalizod\" (32.16 [coinage for the Lucan-Chapelizod
area])) Castle Knock Ashtown Cabra (\"the knock out in the park\" [3.22]) \037
Hole in / the Wall Deaf and Dumb' (pub) Institution Strawberry Beds Viceregal Lo
dge , arlborough Ri, Barracks ( K ;;;::km aroon ( IS 4 ) PHOENIX PARK S b . tone

y aU (a \"knock out in the park\"; The Furry Glen The Hollow < Gael. Cnoc na Mar
bhan, Gough Statue \"\" \"hill of the dead-persons\") Magazine Fort _ WELLINGTO
Auburn CHAPELIZOD (Magazine Wall) __- MEMORIA (private estate; Arthur Gumness na
me of \"loveliest King's House Sons & Company village of the plain\" .. Power's
Distillery in Goldsmith's Kilmamham . The COO] \"The Deserted VIllage\ ..f-- to
Mullingar) Royal Canal) Grand Canal) Crumlin) Clondalkin) Saggart)))
f to Rockabill Lighthouse) to Donabate) Butt Bridge Street I .w's Tomb rch Cathe
dral) ,/ Pembroke \\ IS Within D bl \" b L I . h u In y amp Ig t Institution) Th
e Irish Sea) Baldoyle \302\253 Gael. Baile Dubahaill, \"Town of the Dark Foreign
er\ \037 Ireland's Eye) Kilbarrack) Nose of Howth) the Billow) mcondra) 19h =orn
er Prison) Bailey Lighthouse) Poolbeg (Lighthouse)) Dublin Bay) [\ :les) -----------) Black Rock \"\"\"\"-. Sea point) )undrum) Goatstown) Dalkey) Vico Road (s
hore road from Dalkey to Killiney)) to Tonduff (Mountain)) to Bray and Bray Head
) ,) \037)))
Relief Map B \"OUf mounding's mass\" (8. I) \"Novo Nilbud by swamplight\" (24. I
)) \"Fengless\" (74.15) [\"fangless\": powerless; \"Finglas\": site of \"cemeter
y, \" < Gr. koimeterion. \"dormitory, ............ sleeping place\"]: R.I.P. \03
7) to \"aleallusky I (339.31) [Eng. lusky. \"la2) \"even prospect\" (252.8) [ ev
ening]) '. \"Fibsburrow\" (147.26) il dell-ill [\"fibs\": delusions; ,. (SO: \"b
urrow\"; underground] \037 ') \"duncingk\" (550.35) [a \"dunce\" at \"Sunsink\"
(359.36); blurred \"dancing\": he can't keep time]) --- \"Dumping's Corner\" (44
7.17) -------- \037) \"Cobra Park\" (370.7) \"the domnatory of Defmut\" [Eden, <
Heb. <eden. \"pleasure\"] (593.21) \"the duff and demb institutions\" (73.20)..
........) \"Mou of a tr (76.4-) \"\037w nsillies\" (537.35)-...) \"ash tun\" (6.
33) \"canalles\" (494.32) [\"ash\": extinguished; [Fr. canaille, \"cad. scoundre
l\"] \"tun\": tub] \037 '(35. \037 \"strawberry bedspread\" (559.6)) \"whole of
the wall\" (69.5-6)) \"merlinburrow burrocks\" (5.35) [\"Merlin\": \"entombed al
ive\" (Annotations) ; \"burrows\": underground]) \"ri<) \"whole in the wall\" (9
0.21-22)) \037) PHORNIX PARK (80.6)) \"s) I 33 30 \"fornix\" \" p arks\" \"Willi
ngdone \"vicefreega \"( . ) (116.18,17) mormorial\" \"marmorial\" \"the furry gl
ans\" (526.22-23) (8.35. 9.34) [L. marmoreus, \"the garden Gough gave\" (271.29)
I marblelike; [Eden. < Heb. <eden, \"pleasure\"] Gr. mormor. the boogeyman. hid
eo \"where our maggy seen all\" monster that (7.32) scares children] \"the maidi
es scream all. Himhim himhim.\" \"I (314.13-14) (4' \"weak abdominal wall. . . v
invin, vinvin\" [\" (437.10-11) \"makeussin wall (sinsin! sinsin!)\" (116.18) \"
in imageascene all: whimwhim whimwhim\" (331.30)) \"kayoed\" (85.4) \"knock[ed]
out\"-\"phoenished\"-\"parked\" (3.22) (130.11-12) (454.34)) \"lease lapse\" (26
5.35) \037 [he's expired]) \"Knockout\" \"in these parks\" (505.34) (606.24) [kn
ockout in these parts]) \"Iackslipping\" (310.5) \"unlucalized\" (87.18) \"Iacks
leap\" (547.17)) \"Laxlip\" (69.34)) \"Luvillicit\" (385.25) \037 \"CHAMPELYSIED
\" (607.14) [Fr. Champs Elysees, \"Elysian Fields\": the underworld]) \"Auborne\
" (174.31) [Fr. au bornes, \"at the limit\"]) ,/\" \"the King'sHoarse-\" (219.15
)) \"anny liviJ) \"chapel exit\" (127.29)) r) <) \"the deserted village\" (174.2
5)) \"the disordered visage\" (286.F3)) /) \" \"Chilblaimend\" (74.15-16) [\"chi
lblains\" : sores on the feet]) \"Art thou gainous sense uncompetite\" (325.4))
\"liquorally no more powers\" (321.1)) \"likeliest villain o\037the place\" (137
.7) \037 \"Distorted mIrage (265.28-29) /') \"Fles (53) \"crumbling\" (18.7)) /.
. Kongdam Coombe\" (255.22) [\"Coombe'\" < Gael. cum. \"hollow' \"kill or maim h
im\" (223.20) \"Were you there when they lagged \037 urn through the coombe?\" (
506.11- [\"Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?\" (line from a Black s
piritual)] \"old\" \"dodderer\" (201.8)) \"liveliest vinnageon the brain\" (381.
4)) ./') \"Clowntalkin\" (414.4)) \"saggard\" (555.15) [\"One who 'sags' or hang
s helplessly\" (OED) ]) /) \"Mi [Eden. < ]) I) \"old dodderer\" (201.8))))
to \"Rockabill Booby\" (104.6-7) [\"booby\": dummy; lulled in sleep] \"done abat

e\" (547.27)\\ \\a) \"Whooth?\" (7.30)) ra's Dreamcountry\ I') r------) \"the ir
ised sea\" (318.34)) '\ \"dream\"]) \"ireglint'seye\" (6.3Y \"looks like Iceland
's ear\" (129.27) [i.e., neither works]) :hmound\" nO.23) \037 'The Reverest \"'
dam Foundlitter\" (420.35) (Fr. reve, \"dream\"; Eng. rest; man. 'found littered
\"] ,it of his StTomach's\" (53.31) /. \"clown toff\" \"to the hothehill \"the G
rusham\" from the hollow\" (315.31-32) (607.27) (\03776.1I)\" [tolf (Br. sl.): [
gruesome] gent, swell, dandy] im) \"pillary of the Nilsens\" (322.32) \"Fearvie
w\" (420.26) [\"Nil sens\" = no sense; a \"pillory\" immobilizes]) \"ithmusisthy
\" (623.10) [\"hismajesty\"J) ;, (j ,,\037 \037 .,..\", .\037 ' :.; \"the neck\"
(17.11)) \"sackvulle of swart\" (14.3) [\"swart\"; black]) \"it's snugger to bu
rrow abed\" (565.35-36)) n)) \"old butte new\" (13.14) \"And a live?\" (608.14)
ait\ Anna Livia) t) tomb\ \"Novo Nilbud by swamplight\" (24.1)) iithin\" (541.4)
Old Nick])) \"day broken donning\" (191.27) [broken down] until \"dawnybreak\"
(353.31)) \"-blagrogger-\" (582.32) [\" Black Roger\" : em pty skull on black fi
eld; Fr. blaaue, \"hoax. trick, delusion\"]) : mines\" (16.27) ines\": beneath t
he surface]) \"Downlairy\" (40.30) [\"down\": where he lies: \"lair\": resting p
lace]) t) \"Ghoststown\" (329.25)) \"sire of leery subs of dub\" (596.12) [\"sub
s\": they \"go under\"; Ger. leer, \"empty\"]) in a \"duldrum\" (51.34) Irummed
all he done\" 90.26) [dreamed]) t) \"The Vico Road goes round and round to meet
where terms begin.\" (452.21-22) \"Dullkey\" (40.29)) to \"tonedeaf-\" (5 22 . 2
8 )) to \"braynes\" (74.13) ( \"his braynes coolt parritch\" [cold porridge])) a
nd \"Hoodie Head\" (4.5-6) [\"Hoodie\": hooded. in the dark])))
(7.12), a representational smokescreen that sustains the misleading appear- ance
of vague consonance with waking reality, while in fact indirectly rep- resentin
g a \"latent content,\" and an unconscious one, which bears on \"mat- ters that
fall under the ban of our infrarational senses\" (19.36-20.1). The nature of thi
s \"latent content\" in turn discovers itself if, at the Wake's re- peated insis
tence, we \"see [a] relief map\" (564.10) of \"Finn his park\" (564.8 [not \"Pho
enix Park\"])-where the spelling, like the entire passage in which the phrasing
occurs (564.1-565.5), renders the imaginary landscape with which we are concerne
d explicitly anthropomorphic. One version of such a map is bodied forth in Relie
f Map B, which shows \"Howth Castle and En- virons\" and other localities mentio
ned in Pinneaans Wake not as they are represented by cartographic officialdom, b
ut as they are represented through- out Joyce's \"book of the dark\" (the meanin
gs of any terms on the map not immediately transparent will emerge in passing).
Reference to the upper right-hand corner of this \"relief map\" will show that t
he landscape which our \"knock[ed] out \"dull emitter\" has in mind-or, more acc
urately, has in his \"tropped head\"-latently depicts, in \"Sheeroskouro,\" a \"
still\" \"form out- lined aslumbered, even in our own nighttime\" (7.20-21). Sho
rtly to become known in Pinneaans Wake as \"our mounding's mass\" (8.1), this sl
umbering form is that of a sleeping body. Scattered legends about the landmass t
hat extends between Howth Head and Castle Knock in Dublin might lead us to assoc
iate the \"form outlined aslumbered\" herewith that of a \"sleeping giant\" (S40
.17)-perhaps even the Irish demigod \"Finn MacCool\" (5.10,6.13, 139.14)-\"whose
head is the Hill of Howth\" \"and whose feet turn up among the hillocks of Phoe
nix Park.\"4 But an association is not an identity, and the \"abjects\" and \"th
inks\" our \"knock[ed] out\" hero has in his \"tropped head\" (\"he was obliffio
us of the headth of hosth\") are not really a perceived Howth or Castle Knock at
all. Underlying this dormant form, then, one finds no \"real giant\" at all, bu
t an altogether ordinary \"man of the hooths\" (619.25 [a \"man of the house,\"
and of \"Howth\" head]), \"reclined from cape to pede\" (619.27 [\"cap-a- pie\"]
), his \"heartsoul dormant mid shadowed landshape\" (474.2-3). The paragraph, in
short, amounts to a representation, in the condensed and dis- placed referentia
l systems typical of dreams, of the sleeper's \"knock[ ed] out\" body, which he
now senses, from his own \"eyewitless foggus,\" not as a visible object rational
ly knowable and mensurable in feet and inches in Car- tesian res extensa, but, \
"infrarationally,\" as a space of inert, unthinking matter without knowable boun
daries, internal to which he dwells equally at every point. More than the Dublin

of any authoritative history or guide-) 3 6) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))

book, this is the space within which all of Pinneaans Wake takes place. And it,
too, in its own way, will turn out to be an immense \"afterthought ofthy nomatte
r. \" Sleep entails a withdrawal of all perception and consciousness from the wo
rld one \"knows\" by day-a world nowhere without real landscapes and everywhere
cluttered with real objects (bedroom walls, bed, head). But as consciousness dis
integrates in sleep, external objects vanish from percep- tion. s And as objects
vanish, \"the sleeper turns into himself and falls back . . . into his own body
,\" \"his own body being the material substratum of the dream.\" \"The process o
f falling asleep is a withdrawal\" \"from the object world,\" and \"the process
of dreaming is rebuilding\" \"a new environment formed out of the dreamer's body
.\"6 In yet other words, \"the dreamer sinks into himself. And makes himself a w
hole new world; a man-made world, in the deepest sense. A whole new world, out o
f the body of the dreamer.\"? To say it in the idiom of the Wake: \"And then. Be
old. The next thing is. We are once amore as babes awondering in a wold made fr
esh\" (336.IS-17)-in a \"world made fresh,\" that is, because a \"world made fle
sh\"; and a \"world made flesh\" because sleep, as \"refleshmeant\" (82.10 [\"re
freshment\"]), puts one \"back in the flesh\" (67.5-6). As in dreams, all \"land
shapes\" in Pin- negans Wake originate in the body of the sleeper to whom they o
ccur; and correlatively, all such \"landshapes\" inevitably reveal the nature of
the body of the sleeper. 8 In one form or another, the \"unknown body\" (96.29)
of the man \"trapped head\" at Pinneaans Wake-the distorted \"landshape\" we ha
ve begun to probe-will turn up everywhere in the book, underlying everything in
it. Recurrent \"cap-a-pie,\" \"head-to-foot,\" \"head-to-toe,\" and \"top-to-bot
tom\" formations, turning up all over the place, and often where one least expec
ts them, will keep this space deviously under a reader's attention everywhere in
the Wake. 9 Particularly in its first chapter, as a way of orienting his reader
into the alien spatialities of a world made fresh, Joyce calls heavy attention
to the \"landshape\" highlighted on the book's first page (at, for instance, 6.2
6-27, 6.29-35, 7. 8 - 10 , 7. 1 3- 1 4, 7.21- 2 4, 10.35-36, 11.6-7, 12.19- 2 0,
12.35-36, 14.3 1 [\"selfstretches\"], 15.25, and 17.4-5). But after the chapter
moves through this succession of dreamscapes-and in the process intro- duces us
to a kind of shorthand whereby the slumbering form that we have been examining
becomes known simply as \"our mounding's mass\" (8.1)- any hump, lump, dump, or
mountainlike form will serve to evoke the sleeper's body. The insistent appearan
ce of this \"still\" \"form outlined aslum- bered\" beneath tales apparently bea
ring on other places and other persons-) \"Readina the Evenina World\ 37)))
\"impossible to remember persons in improbable to forget position places\" (617.
8-9)-will remind the \"read[er of] the Evening World\" that all of Pin- neaans W
ake, because \"everynight life\" does (17.33), takes place in the \"trapped head
\" of \"one stable somebody\" (107.31) who himself, because un- consciously \"kn
ock[ed] out,\" drifts through the dark with \"headandheel- less\" obscurity (81.
22-23) beneath the evident surface of things. Momentarily, we might regard the \
"knock[ed] out\" \"dull emitter\" \"laid to rust\" \"in bed\" at Finneaans Wake
as \"Headmound\" (135.9 [as opposed to an alertly brainy \"Edmond\"]). As the na
me implies, he comes equipped with an amply \"Vacant. Mined\" (421. II)-a \"vaca
nt mind\" whose \"eyewitless foggus\" throughout the night, and whose vast abili
ty to \"no\" (not \"know\, all of Pinneaans Wake will now go on to \"represent\"
in elaborate detail. Like all of the figmentary characters who drift through hi
s \"tropped head\" in the dark, \"Ah, he's very thoughtful. . . when he's not ab
sintheminded. . . . He is, really\" (464.15-18). Problematically, however, and e
specially for knowl- edgeably conscious readers, this \"knock[ed] out\" hero is
extremely \"ab- sintheminded\" throughout the length of the night-where that\" a
bsinthe,\" \"now that I come to drink of it\" (561. 14 [not \"think\" of it]), d
eepens any form of quotidian \"absentmindedness\" conceivable to the wakeful rat
ionalist by \"alcoherently\" (40.5), and as deeply as sleep, \"blacking out\" ev

erything (230.10). To the likely objection that may be arising at this point-\"T
his representation does not accord with my experience\" (S09.1-2)-the ob- vious
reply is that \"experience\" always has a colorfully narratable content to it, w
hereas sleep pitches one into a \"vaguum\" (136.34 [a very \"vague\" \"vacuum\"]
) and sends one off \"touring the no placelike no timelike abso- lent\" (609.1-2
[\" absolute\" \"absent\"]). To note further that English does not have a singl
e word-let alone a mimetic convention-that does for the \"ab- sent\" what \"repr
esentation\" does for the \"present,\" is to begin seeing why Pinneaans Wake had
to be written as peculiarly as it is. 1O In portraying a man \"knock[ed] out\"
and \"tropped head,\" who \"is not all there, and is all the more himself since
he is not so\" (507.3-4), Joyce is \"giving unsolicited testimony on behalf of t
he absent. . . to those present\" (173.29-31). As he put it in a letter to Harri
et Shaw Weaver, joking about her account of a large dinner party, \"the tangenti
al relationships, the spiral progressions and the presence of the absent remind
me of something which perhaps I wrote or ought to have written\" (L, I, 218). Th
ere is a happy corollary to these headier observations. As should have become ev
ident in passing-and, if not, \"see relief map\" (564.10) -the man \"trapped hea
d\" at Pinneaans Wake is not very bright. Psychologically, sleep) 3 8) JOYCE'S B
is regressive. Physiologically classified a \"vegetative state,\" it renders our
\"knock[ed] out\" hero something of a lush human vegetable given to pithy littl
e thoughts on the order of \"I yam as I yam\" (604.23; 481.35). As a conse- quen
ce of his fall (asleep), \"his nut [is] cracked\" (136.2), and a good half of th
e \"turniphudded dunce\" (517.7-8) becomes a severe \"mental and moral defective
\" (177.16), if not a simple \"Dimb!\" \"Dumb!\" \"dud\" (6.9-10). In what Joyce
called his \"nocturnal comedy,\" then, the man \"trapped head\" at Pinneaans Wa
ke becomes, \"in his own wise\" (33.4 [this word merits study]), \"our worldstag
e's practical jokepiece\" and \"a veritable Napoleon the Nth\" (33.2-3)-\"Napole
on\" because he's a megalomaniac whose egocentrism moves to indefinite and extre
me degrees (hence \"Nth\.11") Certainly the simplest way of reading Pinneaans Wa
ke is to see it as one protracted and extremely funny little-moron joke, but wit
h one important twist: the little moron turns out to be an altogether representa
tive Western Man, and the more \"know-all profoundly impressive\" a Western Man
in his bents and in- clinations, the bigger the little moron (L, I, 257). For sl
eep takes place in a state that reveals the powerofa tranquilizing ability to \"
no\" (not \"know\- and to \"no\" precisely those things about which Western \"aw
ethorrorty\" (516.19) has consolidated the illusive belief that it can \"know.\"
12 We might, then, think of the \"the old man on his ars\" (514.34) shown in Re
lief Map B-a beleaguered patriarch-as \"Professor Ciondolone\" (161.2-3 [It. cio
n- dolone, \"idler,\" \"lounger\"]), and, as the honorific implies, \"the accomplished washout\" (174.8), \"in his own wise,\" may have a great deal to teach
us; or, at least, we should give the \"doped bum\" \"the bumfit of the doped\" (
339.26 [and \"the benefit of the doubt\"]). Given the dubious relation of consci
ous \"knowing\" to the \"funny and floored\" figure (227.24) shown \"knock[ed] o
ut\" in the relief map, some guidelines would be of use in helping us to proceed
further in a \"reading [of the] Evening World.\" For we have hardly begun to re
ad that paragraph con- taining the phrase \"in bed,\" which still stands surroun
ded by all kinds of murkily nonsensical terms-\"Finnegan,\" \"christian minstrel
sy,\" that hundred-lettered thunderword, the first two paragraphs. Rather than m
ov- ing linearly through a text \"imitative of the dream-state,\" drawing on the
compromised instruments of orthodox rationalism, it might better make sense to
proceed much as we might in interpreting a dream. In what fol- lows, then, \"our
procedure [will consist] in abandoning all those purposive ideas which normally
govern our reflections,\" and all the more crucially because \"purposive ideas,
\" or \"ideas that are known to us\" (ID, 567), will teach us nothing more than
what we already knew to begin with: that we) \"Readina the Evenina World\ 39)))

\"had reason as I knew and you knew and he knew all along\" (158.31). No less pr
oblematically, purposive attacks on a text this obscure may cause us to straitja
cket it into perhaps faultily preconceived literary expectations. Having then ab
andoned these preconceptions, we will \"focus our attention on a single element
of the dream. . . and follow out a chain of associations from [this] one element
, till, for one reason or another, it seems to break off\" (ID, 565-66). In the
paragraph under our attention, for instance, this would mean isolating a single
element-a syllable, word, or phrase like \"in bed\"-then to \"Note the. . . Asso
ciations\" (27o.II-14), as the Wake cryp- tically puts it, that furl out of that
element as it is developed, from cover to cover, throughout the book. \"No conn
ection [will be] too loose, no joke too bad, to serve as a bridge from one thoug
ht to another\" in pursuing these associations, and especially no connection tha
t arises \"by assonance, ver- bal ambiguity. . . or by any association of the ki
nd we allow in jokes or in play upon words\" (ID, 568-69). Some connection of th
is kind has already yielded sense in thinking about the phrase \"knock out\"; an
d as that ex- ample furthermore suggests, this associative way of proceeding, fa
r from li- censing anarchy, will in the long run capture meaning in a way that n
o amount of calculating rationalism (\"rationalization\") ever could. 13 \"If we
then take up a second element\" in the paragraph, moreover, and repeat the proc
ess with it, \"it is only to be expected that the unrestricted character of our
associations will be narrowed\" because we will \"hit upon associations that hav
e something in common with the first chain\" (ID, 566). As we re- peat this proc
ess with a third, fourth, and fifth chain of associations, each mutually restric
ting and hemming each other in, their self-delimiting con- vergence will ultimat
ely capture \"unknown\" or \"unconscious\" matters (ID, 567)-\"matters that fall
under the ban of our infra rational senses\" (19.36- 20. I)-with an exactitude
whose purport must be its own proof. What follows, then, is a primer, an illustr
ation of a process that any reader might go through in \"reading [the] Evening W
orld.\" As it explores \"the book of Doublends]ined\" (20.15-16 [\"double-ends j
oined\"]) , taking as its \"allforabit\" the paragraph in which our analysis beg
an (19.2), this read- ing will move to \"double ends\" and purposes, engaging us
in \"two thinks at a time\" (583.7). On one level, it will simply be moving thr
ough that para- graph-and others along the way-very slowly, particle by particle
, ulti- mately to read them in some depth. But at the same time, because it will
be tracing long chains of association out of such paragraphs and throughout the
entire book, it will be reading Pinneaans Wake over and over again, from cover
to cover, coming to terms on each repeated reading with a distinct) 40) JOYCE'S
aspect of the whole. \"Reading [the] Evening World\" literately reconstructed in
Pinneaans Wake requires one to become familiar with a set of representa- tional
mannerisms peculiar to the working of the night, one of which has to do with th
e latent omnipresence of the sleeper's body beneath all the mani- fest appearanc
es of his dream. Another of these mannerisms furls out of the word \"unquiring\"
and, in particular, out of the syllable \"un-.\" For \"by naught\" (555.5 [\"ni
ght\"]), in the\" nouahttime\" (349.6), its negational power wields a spectacula
r force. As a way of seeing how this works, examine again the figure shown \"out
lined aslumbered\" in Relief Map B. And \"do not fail to point to yourself a dep
ression called Hall Hollow. It is often quite guttergloomering . . . and gives w
ankyrious [one curious] thoughts to the head\" (565.1-3).) \"Readina the Evenina
World\ 41)))
CHAPTER) TWO) Nothing in Particular: On English Obliterature) In a book expressl
y intended to prove that personality survives beyond the grave, the Spanish thin
ker Miguel de Unamuno proposes this interesting exerCIse:) It is impossible for
us, in effect, to conceive of ourselves not existing. and no effort is capable o
f enabling consciousness to realize absolute unconsciousness, its own annihilati
on. Try, reader, to imagine yourself, when you are wide awake, the condi- tion o

f your soul when you are in a deep sleep; try to fill your consciousness with th
e representation of no-consciousness, and you will see the impossibility of it.
The effort to comprehend it causes the most tormenting dizziness. We cannot conc
eive of ourselves as not existing. l) Still, he seems to overlook his own best e
vidence. Unimaginable as any- one conscious may find the \"no-consciousness\" of
deep sleep, quotidian re- flection suggests that billions of people actually va
nish into it each day, with clockwork regularity, there in turn to conceive of n
othing without much torment at all. Contemporary sleep researchers speculate tha
t recol- lectible dreaming takes up roughly one and one-half hours of the averag
e night's sleep;2 and their tabulative ascertainments, doubtless borne out by re
ference to \"m'm'ry,\" merely quantify what nineteenth-century students of dream
s and Freud in essence also knew: \"A dreamless sleep is best, the only proper o
ne.\" What happens in these dreamless extents of the night merits) 4 2)))
our special attention now because Joyce, if he were indeed to \"reconstruct the
nocturnal life\" in Pinneaans Wake, would necessarily have had to ac- count for
these parts of his sleeper's dark too, in turn to provide his reader with some s
uch \"representation of no-consciousness\" as Unamuno deems inconceivable. Brief
examination of any page of Pinneaans Wake will begin to reveal Joyce's success
in this endeavor: the book represents nothing; or, to modulate the phrase one de
gree, much of it represents much the same kind of nothing that one will not reme
mber not having experienced in sleep last night. A writer of strong realist alle
giances, as the evidence of everything he wrote before Pinneaans Wake attests, J
oyce would have beheld in the darker parts of sleep the paradoxical spectacle of
an undeniably real human expe- rience (\"you were there\") within which \"reali
ty,\" \"experience,\" and all hu- man knowing mutually vanished into a state tha
t the Wake calls, with con- tradictory precision, \"Real Absence\" (536.5-6).3 B
ecause Joyce held on the authority of Vico the conviction that thought could yie
ld access to matters \"found within the modifications of our own human mind\"-ma
tters that \"we cannot at all imagine and can comprehend only with great effort\
" (NS, 331, 338)-he would no more have refrained from rendering this \"Real Absence\" legibly particular in his \"book of the dark\" (251.24) than his surrogate, Shem the Penman, who \"giv[es] unsolicited testimony on behalf of the abse
nt. . . to those present\" (173.29-31) in a neverseen, Wake-like \"edition de te
m?bres\" (179.24-27 [Fr. \"edition of darkness\"]). Indeed, as Pinneaans Wake ne
ared its completion Joyce spoke of having built it \"out of nothing. \"4 He was
aware, of course, of problems. While he confided to Jacques Mer- canton that his
\"whole book [was] shaky,\" in Pinneaans Wake itself he de- scribed his sleepin
g protagonist in these more expansively concessive terms: s) Thus the unfacts, d
id we possess them, are too imprecisely few to warrant our certitude, the eviden
cegivers by legpoll too untrustworthily irreperible [L. \"un- discoverable, unle
arnable\"J where his adjugers are semmingly freak threes but his judicandees pla
inly minus twos. Nevertheless Madam's Toshowus waxes largely more lifeliked (ent
rance, one kudos; exits, free) and our notional gullery is now completely compla
cent, an exegious monument, aerily perennious. (57.16-22)) If these lines simply
suggest, by one reading, that the entire representational endeavor of Pinneaans
Wake is nothing but a \"legpull\"-a \"notional gul- lery\"-since only one untru
stworthy \"evidencegiver by headpoll\" can wit- ness and report on those \"too i
mprecisely few unfacts\" even potentially re- trievable from \"the wastes a'slee
p\" (64.1); they also plainly state-even) Nothina in Particular) 43)))
as they evoke \"his judicandees\" (L. his judicandis, \"the judging of these thi
ngs\") -that the \"evidencegiver\" in question is undiscoverable at this moment
of the night, and that those missing \"unfacts\" and his absent \"head\" are equ
ally \"irreperible\" too. While the passage acknowledges evi- dent epistemologic
al problems, then, it also expresses the Wake's obstinate determination \"nevert
heless\" \"to show us,\" in a form of verisimilar por- traiture that might well
find place in a National Gallery (\"notional gul- lery, \" \"lifelike\,") the \"

Real Absence\" internal to a \"completely complacent\" sleeping man-here virtual

ly indistinguishable from a brain-void waxwork dummy in turn \"semmingly\" paste
d together of nothing (\"Madame Tus- saud,\" \"waxes,\" \"lifelike\"; L. adjuaor
, \"to be yoked together\"; Hu. semmi, \"nothing\.") So \"completely complacent\
" in the passage at hand is the man who lies \"outlined aslumbered\" from \"leg\
" to \"poll\" (\"legpoll\") that little seems to be on his \"tropped head\" exce
pt for dim indications of not being there at all (\"notions,\" \"gullery\.") And
especially in a book about sleep entitled the Wake, the closing reference-to Ho
race's Exeai monumentum, aere perennius (\"I have finished a monument more durab
le than brass\- will oblige us to begin wondering what exactly distinguishes the
\"Real Absence\" internally endured by this figure who rests in peace, not awak
e, \"tropped head,\" from the real absence internal to someone resting in eterna
l peace, at his wake, dropped dead. Spectral entry into these considerations mus
t inevitably proceed from re- flection on the more easily accessible experience
of dreaming, where al- ready the Wake's sleeping hero \"is not all there\" (507.
3). And a passage in the Wake growing out of these lines on \"our notional gulle
ry\" will yield ac- cess to the \"clearobscure\" character of dreams. For after
moving through the reach of murky obscurity in which these lines are set (I.iiiiv), the book ultimately lifts back up toward the light of a courtroom hearing i
n which, by one account, \"a constable gives evidence\" against \"Festy King, al
so called pegger Festy, [who] is tried at Old Bailey for stealing coal and takin
g off his clothes in public. \"6 This culminant legal scene bears scrutiny:) Rem
arkable evidence was given, anon, by an eye, ear, nose and throat witness, whom
Wesleyan chapelgoers suspected of being a plain clothes priest W.P., situate at
Nullnull, Medical Square, who , upon letting down his rice and peacegreen coverdisk and having been sullenly cautioned against yawning while being grilled, sm
iled (he had had a onebumper at parting from Mrs Molroe in the morning) and stat
ed to his eliciter under his morse must accents (gobbless!) that he slept with a
bonafides and that he would be there to remember the filth of November, hatinar
ing, rowdy O. which, with the jiboulees of Juno and the dates of ould lanxiety,
was going, please the Rainmaker, to decembs within the ephemerides of profane hi
story, all one with) 44) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
Tournay, Yetstoslay and Temorah, and one thing which would pigstickularly strike
a person of such sorely tried observational powers as Sam, him and Moffat, thou
gh theirs not to reason why, the striking thing about it was that he was patrifi
ed to see. hear, taste and smell, as his time of night , how. . . . (86.32-87.12
; emphasis mine)) Actually on trial here, as the underlining will suggest, is th
e evidence of the senses, their testimony baffling the sleeping man who is nowhe
re directly apparent in this scene but everywhere central to it because he envel
opes it. While all of his Irish senses actually lie \"petrified\" in the motor p
aralysis of sleep (\"he was patrified to see, hear, taste, and smell at his time
of night\") , they also seem contradictorily capable of bearing confused false
witness, in these and subsequent lines, as they proceed to testify about subject
s \"un- lucalised, of no address and in noncommunicables\" (87.18-19), in a tria
l whose single \"evidencegiver by headpoll\" when \"bluntly broached, and in the
best basel to boot, as to whether he was one of those. . . for whom the audible
-visible-gnosible-edible world existed\" cannot exactly say that he is sure (88.
4-7).7 The formally contradictory sentence, then, intricately repli- cates the \
"real\" character of perception in dreams, where vision arises\" in fact, under
the closed eyes of the inspectors [as] the traits featuring the chiaroscuro coal
esce\" (107.28-29); and where the dreamer possessed by voices, \"when seized of
the facts,\" actually \"overhears[s] in his secondary personality as . . . [an]
underreared\" (38.26-28; emphasis mine). The evi- dence spilled up under closed
lids and within dormant ears, accordingly, is as passive in form as the sentence
representing it (\"Remarkable evidence was aiven, anon, by an eye witness petri
fied to see\" [italics mine]); and, as the highlighted adverb in turn suggests,
\"it ooze[s] out in Deadman's Dark Scenery Court through crossexanimation of the
casehardened testis\" [L. \"witness\"] both \"anonymously\" and \"anon\"-\"imme

diately, without medi- ation\" (87.33-34). The reference here to \"Deadman's Dar
k Scenery Court\" would only locate this entire trial more deeply within the bod
y of a man who lies \"casehardened\" (\"hardened on the surface\") under the sen
sory closure of sleep, while internally undergoing a \"cross-examination\" of hi
s own \"exanimation\" (\"deprivation of life, \" or \"apparent death\.") 8 All o
f the elements in this sentence extraneous to its syntactical core- each invitin
g the Wakean question, \"Is it a factual fact\"? (S29.31)-now begin to operate c
ampara bly, as negatory ciphers denoting perception \"oozed out\" of a body dead
ened to all sensory perception of the real. Those odd \"Wesleyan chapelgoers,\"
for instance-practitioners of \"inner calm\" who doctrinally embrace \"the witne
ss of the Spirit\"-only cast further doubt on the already jeopardized evidence b
y branding the strange witness of whom) Nothina in Particular) 45)))
we read an undercover Catholic. 9 Their rightful distrust of \"figments in the e
vidential order\" (96.26-27) renders this \"dim seer\" (96.28) indistinguish- ab
le from the Wake's \"patrified\" hero, who sleeps undercovers and in dis- guise
throughout the entire sentence, enjoying insuperable inner calm as he witnesses
spirits and emits strange counterintelligence at the interior of \"an unknown bo
dy\" (96.29) void of any sensation of the real at all (\"Nullnull, Medical Squar
e\.") His testimony, then, only illusively whispered \"to a solici- tor under No
rse moustaches\" and amplified by a sneeze-\" (God bless!) \"- actually bears on
events perceived in the absence of all direct perception, as if over remoteness
es of dark by means of imperceptible, because radiotele- graphed, Morse code (\"
morse mustaccents\" plays \"Morse\" and the Fi. musta [\"black\"] into the Engli
sh word \"accents\.10") His voluble testimony also seems self-elicited (\"elicit
er\") and quite inaudible; for the anonymous \"throat-witness\" sleeping through
out this entire scene, \"obliffious\" entirely of himself, is much more \"pigsti
ckularly\" oblivious of the existence of his own shut mouth: he's\" (gob-less)\"
[Anglo-Ir. aob, \"mouth\"], and he just lies there, \"stuck like a pig.\" Evide
nce given about exact dates and times (\"he would be there to remember the filth
of November . . . the dates of auld lanxiety\" ), designates as well the absenc
e of perceived historical time alto- gether-discrete \"fifth\" slipping into bla
cked-out \"filth,\" and \"the days of old anxiety\" blurring away entirely into
\"Auld Lang Syne\" (where \"auld ac- quaintance\" \"be forgot\" and is \"never b
rought to mind\" [389.11, 390.23, 21, II.iv]). The misheard echo of a Guy Fawkes
Day chant-\"Please to remem- ber the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and
plot\"-finally suggests that this entire Irish juridical nightmare, bearing obsc
urely on the anni- hilation of English reality and legality, actually threatens
more the ety- mologically related properties of English reality and legibility.
For ultimately on trial in this strange legal scene is not simply the taxed evid
ence of the senses, but all the exacting rules of evidence by which the innately
formless senses of sight and hearing have been disciplined over years both of p
ersonal and cultural history to bear witness on an \"audible- visible-gnosible w
orld\" held intelligibly in place by those correlated insti- tutional forces of
leg ality, le gibility, and log ic which Vico conceptually equates with inte lle
c tion and reco llec tion in The New Science, by derivation from the common root
* lea- (\"t6 co llec t, to gather\") (NS, 240, 363). De- manding intelligent an
d reco llec tively drilled study through peeled eyes and amply opened ears, Engl
ish and the reality it orders are evident to no one at birth, or in sleep. If th
e \"person of sorely tried observational powers\" repre- sented in this scene fa
ils adequately to register the real evidence, then) 46) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK
(from the Latin e-videre, \"to see clearly\,") he can only fail badly to heed th
e laws by which that evidence is wakefully ordered. The passage therefore be- gi
ns to suggest why Pinneaans Wake had to turn obscurely \"outlex\" (169.3) in ord
er accurately to reconstruct \"everynight life\" (17.33), where vision and evide
nce arise only in their own absence; but it also yields a simple corollary allow

ing us to distinguish dream-riffed parts of the book from its \"Real Absences.\"
For while all of sleep takes place under the closure of the senses, dreams do n
ot quite. \"Show[ing] us the dreamer in so far as he is not sleeping,\" in Freud
's words, dreams submit to intelligible analysis, inter- pretations as variant a
s those surrounding any legal case, and, above all, recollection, because they l
ift from dormancy the trained senses of sight and hearing, inevitably articulate
d with elaborate memories of struggles by which the \"earsighted\" dreamer has l
earned the heard and written law (143.9- 10): no recollectible dream lies far fr
om wakened life or is void of visual or auditory image. Yet in parts of the nigh
t reconstructed by Finneaans Wake, as its prostrate central figure lies \"deafad
umped\" (590. I), his\"eyballds\" glazed over and \"unoculated\" in visionlessne
ss (75.17, 541.27), the trained senses and all that they have been disciplined t
o know fall dormant as the rest of his body, whether singly or together, to leav
e only \"the gravitational pull perceived by certain fixed residents. . . sugges
ting an authenticitatem of his aliquitudi- nis\" (100.32-34 [L., \"an authentici
ty of his somethingness\"]): \"Is now all seenheard then forgotten? Can it was.
. .\" ? (61.29-30). \"Turn[ing] a deaf ear clooshed\" in parts of his sleep (\"c
looshed\" folds the English \"closed\" into the Gael. cluas, \"ear\,") \"daffMr
Hairwigger\"-\" (not all hear)\" -\"pro- ceed[s] . . . in the directions of the
duff and demb institutions\" to become incapable of any legitimate or legal hear
ing at all (582.7, 491.30, 536.1-2, 73.18-20). And \"claud[ing] boose his eyes\"
(S09.30)-where \"claud\" blurs \"cloud\" and \"close\" into the Latin claudo (\
"shut\,") while the \"boose\" blacks brain and \"both\" eyes out-he turns his \"
seeless socks\" (468.25) vacant as the gaps in empty wickets, so to lose all evi
dence of all evidence: \"Wicked- gapers, I appeal against the light. An nexisten
ce of vi vidence\" (366.2-3 [the orthographical modifications suggest equally th
e \"inexistence of evidence\" and the death-L. nex-of vivid existence]). At thos
e darkest moments of the night in which the man \"tropped head\" at the Wake fin
ally finds \"sound eyes right but. . . could not all hear\" and \"light ears lef
t yet. . . could but ill see,\" he simply \"cease[s]. And he cease[s], tung and
trit\" (Da. tuna 0a trret, \"heavy and tired\,") so to cross over the borders of
\"Metamnisia\" (Gr. metamnesia, \"beyond forgetfulness\") \"in the waste of all
peaceable worlds,\ Nothina in Particular) 47)))
there to \"bare falls witless\" to nothing (158.9- 14, 247.22). Deliberately inverting \"light\" and \"sound\" and \"right\" and \"left\" to suggest the evapo
ration of space, these lines would show the Wake's sleeper sinking under shut ey
es and ears into the \"bare\" and metamnesic \"waste\" of \"peaceable sleep,\" w
here he \"falls witless,\" witness only to \"Real Absence.\" It is into compa- r
able metamnesia that the Wake's sleeping protagonist passes at the end of the le
gal hearing whose intricacies we have followed, as its single \"remark- able evi
dencegiver,\" \"having murdered all the English he knew,\" simply van- ishes, tr
ailing behind him an empty-pocketed garment-an envelopment wi th nothing insideand \"thereinunder proudly showing off the blink pitch\" (93.2-4). This \"blink
pitch\" would in part be the \"blank pitch\" that gels beneath his closed eyelid
s, as if under a \"black patch,\" when they \"blink\" for \"one eyegonblack\" (1
6.29) and pass out of dreams-no matter whether the \"eye go black\" for one mome
nt (Ger. ein Auaenblick) or hours. But since Pinneaans Wake immediately moves in
to a chapter treating of illegibly bur- ied letters and a \"partly obliterated.
. . negative\" lost \"in the heart of the orangeflavoured mudmound\" (III.34-3S)
-its hero's \"deafadumped\" body, now quite \"ob-literate\" (L. void ofletters)
and suffused with the negative- the same \"blink pitch\" would also denote the o
bliterate representation of sleep's \"black pitch,\" in Pinneaans Wake, on \"the
blank page.\" Accurately to reconstruct that part of life lived in immobility a
nd dream- void sensory paralysis, that is, Joyce necessarily devises in Pinneaan
s Wake a whole strange language of negation, a system of reference to no experie
nce, whose infinitely inflected terms, equally signifying the absence of perception and the perception of nothing, ultimately replicate from his own \"eye- wi
tless foggus\" the \"one percepted nought\" (368.36 [\"night\"]) endured by a ma

n unconsciously drifting toward sunrise through \"Real Absence\" in \"the heliot

ropical nouahttime\" of a \"night-time's\" sleep (349.6 [\"heliotropes,\" or \"s
unflowers,\" move like sleeping people toward the sun]). Writ on \"slip[s] of bl
ancovide\" (43.24 [Fr. blanc et vide \"blank and void\"]) and lexically ex- pres
sing \"the lexinction of life. . . be your blanche patch\" (83.25-26), one form
of this language of nihilation is called \"sordomutics\" in Pinneaans Wake (117.
14 [L. surdus-mutus, \"deaf-and-dumb\;ll") and it renders concep- tually \"deaf
and dumb\" and \"blank and void\" each articulated black and white page of the b
ook, in part by layering over the substantive nouns of English an assemblage of
insubstantives that refer to nothing but the ab- sence of sensation, its objects
, and all reference. Not a single \"blanche patch\" in Pinneaans Wake fails eith
er directly or obliquely to evoke such states of imperception as blindness, deaf
ness, dumbness, and numbness; or) 48) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
the \"black,\" \"blank,\" \"dim,\" \"silent,\" \"mu te,\" \"numb,\" or \"obscure
\" obj ects of such imperception. For in sleep, \"if we look at it verbally\"-as
opposed to nominally-\"there is no true noun in active nature where every bally
being. . . is becoming in its owntown eyeballs\" (523.10- 12 [\"owntown\" suggests both \"undone\" and the Anglo-Ir. Bally-, \"hometown\"]). In such a state
of \"sordomutic\" insensation, where all substantives-\"every those personal pla
ce objects ifnonthings where soevers\"-lie \"forswundled\" (598.1-3 [Ger. versch
windet, \"vanished,\" or vorschwindelt, \"made believe\"]), we are of- ten left
to look at \"some such nonoun\" (104.16) as would suitably depict the Wake's abs
ent and \"patrified\" hero, \"(a very pure nondescript, by the way. . . which pa
leographers call. . . the Aranman inaperwhis throuah the hole of his hat)\" (121
.9-12); the phrasing here suggests that the vacant con- tent of this \"nondescri
pt\" Irishman's \"head,\" all \"holes\" and scattered \"whis- pering,\" can only
be \"nondescribed,\" and in much the same way as might the content of an empty
\"hat.\" 12 By day the man who sleeps at Finneaans Wake lives evidently in a Dub
lin peopled by familiar citizens, in a period of its civil history when politica
l tensions rising from the struggles of the United Irishmen of 1798 still ran hi
gh and when Michael Gunn's Gaiety Theatre offered the public the enter- tainment
of pantomimic dumbshows. But as Dublin by daylight fades away to leave this \"v
ery pure nondescript\" a \"Novo Nilbud by swamplight\" (24. I), the \"numb\" of
this \"nobodyatall\" (546.26, 73.9 [the insensible \"name\"]) un- dergoes an inc
essantly modulatory slippage from \"Headmound\" (135.9) to \"Donawhu\" (76.32; 4
39.20 [less an Irish \"Donoghue\" than a \"Don't know who\"]), to \"Mr Makeall G
one\" (220.24), according to his degree of \"Real Absence\" in the night. Coordi
nately, this ordinarily united Irishman be- comes a \"benighted irismaimed\" (48
9.31) whose \"eyewitless foggus\" renders him largely \"the blind to two worlds
taking off the deffydowndummies\" (530.2-3): incapable either of vision or the h
allucinated vision of dreams (\"blind to two worlds\,") an inert \"dummy\" whose
ear lies \"deaf\" to his own \"dumb\" tongue (\"deffydowndummy\,") he finds him
self \"taking off\" (imitating) a man \037'drop[ped] down dead and deaf\" (323.1
9) under a bed of daffodils (\"daffydowndillies\.") \"Trapped head\" and not awa
ke, he might just as well have \"dropped dead,\" as far as he can \"no,\" at a w
ake. Properly to identify with this \"-'Man Devoyd of the Commoner Charac- teris
tics of an Irish Nature\" (72.II-I2)-with \"such a none\" (143.18)-a reader cult
ivating the requisite \"ideal insomnia\" must therefore let the Wake's \"surdumu
tual\" \"nomanclatter\" (530.10, 147.20 [this \"nomenclature\" descriptive of \"
no man\"]) woo him into the \"blank memory\" (515.33) of) Nothina in Particular)
what it was like \"blindly, mutely, tastelessly, tactlessly\" (92.27) not to hav
e been there in the middle of last night's sleep, when he too drifted through \"
states of suspensive exanimation,\" enjoying a kind \"of mindmouldered ease\" (1
43.8-9, 14). Indeed, properly to identify with a central unconscious- ness like
\"Headmound\" or \"His Murkesty\" (175.23), a reader has to establish less a con

ventionally empathetic identity than an \"indentity,\" and \"ofundis- cernibles\

" (49.36-So.I)-where the attachment of the prefix \"in_\" to the normally solid
term \"identity\" directs one inward, but also negates, so to suggest that \"His
Murkesty\" doesn't have one at all. As the example furthermore suggests, \"ever
y dimmed letter\" (424.32) comprising the \"blurry wards\" (425.13) of Joyce's \
"sordomutic\" \"nonday diary\" (489.3s)-a letter \"written in smoke and blurred
by mist and signed of solitude, sealed at night\" (337.13- 14) -is systematicall
y darkened in order to intensify the shimmering torrent of negativity understrea
king the \"darkumen's\" reference to no perceived reference (350.29). Given a da
rkly human hero (\"darkumen\" combines \"document\" and \"darkhuman\") who \"is
consistently blown to Adams\" (313.12) in the \"percepted nought\" of dream- les
s sleep, Joyce necessarily undertakes a complementary\" a bnihilisation of the e
tym\" (353.22), by blowing away the \"black and white\" oflexical English into a
n \"outlexical\" \"blotch and void\" (229.27) adequate to the representa- tion o
f \"Headmound's\" \"Vacant. Mined.\" Affixes of negation like a-, ab-, de-, dis, ex-, -less, im-, in-, mis-, non-, and un-, accordingly, become as episte- molo
gically central to Pinneaans Wake as the personal pronouns, in turn systematical
ly deformed, are to English; while syllabifications internal to the \"blotty wor
ds\" (14.14) of Joyce's \"NIGHTLETTER\" (308.16) are com- parably bent into sens
es that denote the darkening or absence of sense. The English \"for instance,\"
\"for inkstands\" (173.34), gets blacked out and abne- gated at two \"unstant[s]
\" (143.8) in \"the no placelike no timelike absolent\" of the Wake's \"noughtti
me\" (609.1-2), in order to capture the \"Real Ab- sence\" of a hero who knows l
ess \"the existence of time in the world\" than the \"exsystems\" (148.18) \"off
time\" (143.5) \"undeveiled\" (75.5-6; d. 403.15) . Indeed, since \"His Murkest
y\" has \"trapped head\" and lies \"personally un- preoccupied\" (558.4) at the
interior of \"an unknown body\" (96.29) in- capable of deed or act, he seems to
sense through much of the night only o his lack of sense and senses: \"Impalpabu
nt, he abhears\" (23.25-26 [\"ap- pears\" but \"ab-hears\"]); \"Murk, his vales
are darkling\" (23.23 [\"Mark\" only \"murk\"]). \"Smatterafact,\" \"thin\" (183
.7, 106.24 [rather than find a fact, \"then\"]), phrases in Pinneaans Wake like
\"the boob's indulligence\" and the \"murketplots\" (531.2, 368.9) would only ap
parently refer to \"the pope's in-) so) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
dulgence\" and \"the marketplace,\" latently referring us back inward to the \"t
hin\" and \"dulled\" \"intelligence\" lacking in a \"boob\" like \"Headmound,\"
who lies murkily \"reduced to nothing\" (499.3) \"durk the thicket of slumb- whe
re\" (580.15 [\"durk\" moves \"dark\" into the Ger. durch, \"through,\" while \"
slumbwhere\" blurs \"somewhere\" away in \"slumber\"]): \"it's like a dream.\" S
o pervasive is the annihilation of reference and matter of fact in Joyce's \"non
day diary,\" \"as a marrer off act\" (345-4), that even such apparently or- thod
ox English words as \"excommunicated\" (181.35) and \"delightedly\" (179.30) bea
r essentially negative meanings: in \"delight time\" reconstructed in this \"nig
htynovel\" (329.10, 54.21 [the \"night time\"]), they carry the full weight of t
heir negatory prefixes in order to help represent an \"exexive\" \"ex-ex-executi
ve\" (363.9,42.8-9) who lies x'd out, \"denighted\" (615.15), and \"Exexex! COMM
UNICATED\" (172.10). A reader wishing \"to shed a light on\" this \"document,\"
then, would do better \"to shellalite on the darku- men\" (3S0.29)-bearing in mi
nd that \"shellalite,\" an explosive, \"obliter- ates\": \"letters be blowed!\"
(251.31).13 Now \"in [this] Nichtian glossery which purveys aprioric roots for a
pos- teriorious tongues this is nat language at any sinse of the world\" (83.1012), as the Wake informs its reader, calling attention to the elaborate \"not l
an- guage\" it has devised in order to represent the nat (Da. \"night\") through
which its hero suspensively drifts between the knowable past of a yesterday (\"
aprioric\") and the potentiality of a knowable future tomorrow (\"apos- teriorio
us\.") \"Nat language\" here means several things. \"Since\" the world vanished
into the\" nat\" (\"night\,") of course, the man \"trapped head\" at the Wake ha
s \"no sinse of the world,\" and \"this is not language in any sense of the word
\": \"not a salutary sellable sound is since\" (598.4). Since \"nat lan- guage\"

also suggests \"not language,\" however, the phrase indicates that the language
of Pinneaans Wake will work heavily by oppositional negation. Unlike English, t
hat is, which conveys meaning in its ideal form by indicat- ing the presence of
corresponding ideas and things, this \"not language\" op- erates largely by indi
cating their \"Real Absence.\" The \"lexical\" parallels into which the \"outlex
\" (169.3) of Wakese can be translated, accordingly, indicate largely what the W
ake is not about-as, for example \"recoil\" is not \"recall\" (quite the contrar
y); \"Headmound\" is not \"Edmond\" (quite the contrary); and \"Taciturn\" (17.3
), whose mouth is firmly shut throughout the length of sleep, is not \"Tacitus,\
" who after all had a great deal to sayan the subject of Germany. 14 \"Scotograp
hically arranged\" in plain \"blotch and void\" on \"the blink pitch\" (412.3,22
9.27,93.4), this \"nat language\" now generates as a totality a) Nothing in Part
icular) 51)))
kind of portraiture opposite in every particular from that afforded by the photo
graph and related forms of representation: antonymically inverting the sense of
\"photography\" \302\253 Gr. ph6toaraphia, \"light-writing\,") Joyce's sleep-des
criptive \"scotography\" \302\253 Gr. skotos, \"darkness\") makes for a kind of
\"darkness-writing\" whose developed product, the inversion of a well- articulat
ed positive print, is a \"partly obliterated negative\" that captures the \"Real
Absence\" of an extremely \"Black Prince\"-\"the blank prints, now ex- tincts\"
(387.20)-who lies \"reduced to nothing\" in the \"noughttime\" (499.3) and so c
an only be captured in \"black prints.\" 15 Where the photograph, taken through
the open -eyed lens of the camera I ucida (17 I. 32), seeks to freeze the pleni
tude of the present in all its fleeting detail, the Wakean \"scoto- graph,\" tak
en through \"blackeye lenses\" (183.17) kept as firmly \"SHUT\" be- neath \"a bl
ind of black sailcloth\" (182.32-33) as those of the eyes in sleep, seeks to cap
ture only the absent; \"exhabiting that corricatore of a harss, re- vealled by O
scur Camerad\" (602.22-23), its \"camera obscura\"-dark cham- ber, closed lens-e
xposes and \"exhibits\" the \"character\" of an \"obscure comrade\" of ours who,
because \"put to bed\" (It. corricatore, \"one put to bed\,") seems more to be
\"ex-habiting\" than \"in-habiting\" his body, as ifin a \"hearse,\" \"trapped h
ead.\" \"Say mangraphique may say nay par daguerre!\" (339. 2 3) .16 Traditional
forms of representation at the turn of the century, as Virginia Woolf complaine
d, aspired perhaps too unreflectively to emulate the appar- ently flawless mimet
ic perfection of the photograph, ultimately to yield the glory of the Norman Roc
kwell oil and the slice-of-life narrative circulated in the Saturday Evenina Pos
t of Joyce's day. Compensatorily, then, the \"scoto- graphic\" \"blotch and void
\" of Pinneaans Wake issues its reader-through \"black mail,\" as opposed to bla
ck-and-white mail (34.33-34,69.2, 240.12, 350. II, 457.2, 563.16, 420.17-421. 14
) -something of an elaborately articu- lated \"Scatterbrains' Aftening Posht\" (
99.34-35), a \"Pooridiocal\" (106.11) whose each \"blink pitch\" \"nondepicts\"
the \"Real Absence\" of sleep (Da. aften, \"evening\,") where our hero's \"brain
s\" lie \"scattered\" in a \"posh\" (\"a state of slush\" [OED]). Sentences comp
rising this \"scotographic\" \"black mail,\" then-this \"night express\" (135.34
) expressive of \"noughttime\"- might be regarded as representing all the blanks
that fall in between ordi- narily lexical sentences: \"In the buginning is the
woid, in the muddle is the sounddance and thereinafter you're in the unbewised a
gain\" (378.29-30). Manifestly a \"word,\" \"woid\" points also into a \"void\"
here, so to generate in this particular construction an obliterate negative of t
he creative Logos, a) 52) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
\"muddled sentence,\" \"wherein often,\" as in sleep, a reader is lucidly in the
Unbewusst (Ger. the \"Unconscious\. The observation made of a \"blindfold passa
ge\" (462.35) in this \"night- mail\" (565.32) that \"old hunks on the hill read
it to perlection\" (94.IO)-to \"perfection\" in \"perlection\" (\" a reading th
rough\" [OED] ) -does not particu- larly lighten the task of a conscious reader.
\"Old Hunks,\" a blind Eliza- bethan bear and a cipher for the Wake's sleeping

hero, couldn't see, and he hibernated. A good reading of the Wake's \"obliterate
d negative,\" then, would require a reader to work through its black and white a
bc's by cultivating an unrelentingly \"abcedminded\" (18.17) memory of the \"blo
tch and void\" \"ab- sentmindedness\" experienced last night. For unlike actual
photographic negatives, which are clearly visible, the \"obliterated negative\"
of this \"Scat- terbrains' Aftening Posht\" \"render[s] all animated greatbritis
h and Irish ob- jects nonviewable to human watchers\" (403.23-24). Many of its \
"blink pitches\" must therefore be construed as bearing a content as imperceptib
le as that of the number zero borne on unreceived radio-waves wired through \"Et
heria Deserta\" (309.9) from \"ostralian someplace\" (488.20)-a world \"down und
er\" (321.32, 450. I), and a dark one (L. ostra, \"purples\") -by a \"Negoist Ca
bler. . . who is sender of the Hullo Eve Cenograph in prose or worse every AIlsa
's night. . . . Noughtnoughtnought nein\" (488.21-26). Colorfully articulated nu
llity of this kind would equally well describe Pinneaans Wake, itself a \"Hullo
Eve Cenograph in prose and verse,\" which of- fers its reader a new kind of writ
ing (Gr. cainoaraphos, \"new-writing\,") ex- pressive of the \"nought\" (Gr. cen
oaraphos, \"empty-writing\") imperceived by a man lying hollow in the dead of ni
ght (\"Hollow Eve Cenograph\.") A vague humanoid presence identifia ble througho
u t Pinneaans Wake primarily by the acrostic initials HCE, this \"spickspookspok
esman of our spectures- que silentiousness\" (427.32-33 [\"picturesque\" \"spect
er\"]) occupies a mind structured internally much like a \"cenotaph\"-a tomb com
memorating a body buried somewhere else-dimly stirred as if on a \"Halloween\" o
r \"All Souls' Night\" (\"Hullo Eve,\" \"AIlsa's\.") Its obliterated and absent
content (\"Noughtnoughtnought nein\,") by way of the Latin neao (\"to say no\")
and the German nein (\"no\,") would yield a quadruple negative representative of
the Wake's ubiquitous ciphers for the \"blickblackblobs\" imperceived during th
e \"blanko\" \"blotto\" \"blackout\" of sleep (339.2 1,64.31,39.33,560.2,617.14)
. While reading in the Wake's \"nat language\" of \"the haardly creditable edven
tyres\" of this sleeping man, then (SI.14)-where the blurring of the Danish even
tyr (\"fairy tale\") into the English\" adventure\" tells us that) Nothina in Pa
rticular) 53)))
these \"edventyres\" will not be actual ones-a reader should find himself, as he
sympathetically \"blacks out\" and \"goes dead\ Turning up and fingering over t
he most dantellising peaches in the lingerous long- erous book of the dark. . .
. I know it is difficult but when your goche I go dead. Turn now to this patch u
pon Smacchiavelluti! Soot allours, he's sure to spot it! (251.22-27)) The \"Mach
iavellian\" inversions of Joyce's \"scotographic\" \"blotch and void\" makePinne
aans Wake's the \"black velvet\" (242.6) of prose styles (It. smacchia/ velluti,
\"cleans velvet\:") its \"sooty velour allures\" (\"Soot allours\"; Fr. zut, al
ors!). Since it offers its reader not the account of a \"day in the city,\" but
of a \"dayety in the sooty\" (143.4-s)-where \"dayety\" evokes a \"dumbshow\" (1
20.7, 559.18) darker than any ever performed in Michael Gunn's Gaiety Theatre be
cause enacted by \"Makeall Gone,\" of \"Dumnlimn\" (443.16), in the \"sooty\" bl
ack of night-it's \"blink pitches\" must be scrutinized for their constant trace
s of the absent in the same way that \"black patches,\" in dark- ness, are spott
ed on black velvet (\"turn now to this patch upon Smacchia- velluti\"; \"he's su
re to spot it\.") \"Revery warp\" (211.17 [and \"word\"]) on the \"dantellising\
" pages of this dark text, accordingly, makes sense in much the same way that ea
ch constituent element in a dark textile like lace does (\"dantellising\" sugges
ts the French dentelle, \"lace\:") and \"lace. . . Sure, what is it on the whole
only holes tied together\"? (434.21-22). Particled up \"from next to nothing\"
(4.36-5.1) and set against a night-black velvet foil, Pinneaans Wake is a compar
ably dark \"wordspiderweb\" (L, III, 422), an aes- thetic collection of nullitie
s held in place by a \"nat language\" that gives the human \"noughttime\" its ap
prehensible shape. And since all of the night, dream-stirred or not, takes place
in the \"Real Absence\" of experience, \"every dimmed letter\" in Joyce's \"dar
kumound\" (386.20-21) should be examined for its reference to the absence of a m
an \"trapped head\" in the dark. Something of how this \"nat language\" is put c

ontextually to work in the linear \"drema\" (69.14) of Pinneaans Wake-the entire

ly \"nonactionable\" (48.18) \"drama\" of a \"dream\" erratically experienced ov
er the space of a night-is suggested by a return to the third chapter of the boo
k, whose cen- tral pages have already shown \"our notional gullery\" lying \"com
pletely complacent\" in the \"vaguum\" (136.34). For in this section of the Wake
, Joyce intricately portrays HCE sinking into a part of the night \"versts and v
ersts from true civilisation, not where his dreams top their traums halt (Beneat
here! Benathere!)\" (81. 15-16): reference to a \"tram-stop\" here indi- cates t
he end of the line and all \"trains\" of thought, just as \"Beneathere!\" moves
us \"beneath\" the headland of \"Ben Edar\" (Howth) and therefore be-) 54) JOYCE
neath the head altogether; the entire construction evokes a part of the \"nought
time\" in which \"dreams stop\" and the German Traum (\"dream\ halts. Chapter I.
iii begins inauspiciously as a series of figures who have lis- tened to the sing
ing of \"Osti-Fosti's\" ballad in the preceding episode insubs- tantially vanish
, together with all ordinary signs of human identity, each after the other evapo
rating into a succession of varied absences:) Yet all they who heard. . . are no
w. . . as much no more as be they not yet now or had they then notever been. . .
. Of the persins sin this. . . saga (which, thorough readable to int from and,
is from tubb to buttom all falsetissues, antilibellous and nonactionable and thi
s applies to its whole wholume) of poor Osti-Fosti . . . no one end is known. .
. . Ei fu [It. \"he was\"]. His husband. poor old A'Hara. . . at the con- clusio
n of the Crimean War [at an end in a Black Sea] . . . under the assumed name of
Blanco . . . perished. . . . BooiI [Russ. \"he was\"]. Poor old dear Paul Horan.
. . was thrown into a Ridley's for inmates in the northern counties [an insane
asylum]. . . . He was. Sordid Sam. . . at a word from Israfel the Summoner [the
Islamic angel of death], passed away painlessly. . . one hallowe'en night, ebbro
us [It. ebbro, \"drunk\"] and in the state of nature. propelled from Behind into
the great Beyond. . . . Han var [Da. \"he was\"]. . . . her wife Langley. . . d
isappeared, (in which toodooing he has taken all the French leaves unveilable .
. . ) from the sourface of this earth. . . so entirely spoorlessly (the mother o
f the book with a dustwhisk tabula rasing his oblit- eration done upon her invol
ucrum) as to tickle the speculative to all but opine. . . that the hobo. . . had
transtuled his funster's latitat to its finsterest interrimost. Bhi she [Gael.
\"he was\"]. . . . (48.6-50.17)) Then the three-page paragraph violently redacte
d here closes as a long con- ditional clause (\"Again, if Father San Browne. . .
\") turns weirdly inter- rogative at its incompleted end, so to replicate formal
ly the dissolution of sense, with sentence, in a nebulous part of the night that
only question and hypothesis can begin to replicate: \"and were they? Puitfuit
[L. 'he was he was']\" (50.18-32). That deliberately occulted phrase \"he was,\"
repeated seven times to sug- gest \"helvetically hermetic\" enclosure, structur
es the paragraph (\"Ei ill. Booil. He was. Han var. Bhi she. Puitfuit\.") It dev
iously tells us that the sleeping man whose \"eyewitless foggus\" the paragraph
replicates, himself obscured from himself, isn't quite there anymore-simply \"wa
s\"-his ac- tual disappearance determining all the figmentary ones; for all thos
e pa- tently ridiculous figures were \"Just feathers! Nanentities\" (538.7) Y Th
e paragraph shows HCE sinking \"benighth\" (480.17) all knowing of the earth (\"
finsterest\" evokes both the toponym \"Finisterre\" [\"earth's end\"] and the Ge
rman finster [\"dark\"]), as he takes a spectral \"French leave\" (sl. for \"a s
udden unnoticed departure\") and \"disappears spoorlessly\" from dreams) Nothina
in Particular) 55)))
of worldly \"habitat\" into the unknown \"latitat\" (L. \"hiding-place\") of a \
"finsterest interrimost\" which finds him dreamlessly \"interred\" in super- lat
ive degrees of the dark and the interior. For if dreams have their strange chron
ologies, dreamlessness does not, and the chapter has already gener- ated a seque
nce of equations that began blurring an abnegated past and a nonexistent future

into a present void of circumstance (\"all they who heard. . . are now. . . as m
uch no more as be they not yet now or had they then notever been\" ). As wording
webbed through the middle of this dense paragraph moreover indicates, the chapt
er begins at the end of the auditory dream that was reconstructed in I.ii (\"The
Ballad\:) Me drames. . . has come through! [\"come true.\" moved to completion]
. Now let the centuple celves of my egourge [the dream involved a crowd, and the
'hundred selves' now fade into a single 'cell'] . . . reamalgamerge in that ind
entity of undis- cernibles where. . . may they cease to bidivil uns and. . . mel
t into peese! [melt into peace] Han vaT [\"he was\"]. (49.32-5\302\260.5)) Merel
y opening with a scotographic account of how nothingness starts seeping up into
the \"trapped head\" of a man who has \"nearvanashed him- self\" (61. 18), I.iii
now begins systematically \"propogandering his nullity suit\" (59.22 [\"nearvan
ashed\" recalls the literal meaning of \"nirvana\" in the \"blowing-out\" of the
flame of life, while the \"gander\" in \"propogandering\" \"takes flight\"]). \
"All falsetissues\" like lace, the body of this entirely \"nonac- tionable\" and
\"anti libellous\" chapter (Gr. antilibellos, \"against books\") ac- cordingly
becomes the formal equivalent of any \"empty envelope\" (L. involu- crum) absent
of \"all unveil able French leaves\" and addressed not with letters but with th
e obliterate \"nat language\" of Wakese. The content of this \"un- vulope\" (378
.35) would be the Wake's nullified hero, a \"tabula rasa erased\" as soon as any
thing enters his \"Vacant. Mined\" (42I.II): \"he has taken all the French leave
s unveilable. . . the mother of the book with a dustwhisk tabu- larasing his obl
iteration done upon her involucrum\" (50.8- 13). After observing that \"there's
nix to nothing we can do for he's never again to sea\" (50.35 [\" at sea,\" \"he
's never to see\"]), the chapter proceeds to chron- icle HCE's deepening vanishm
ent into the \"noughttime\" by showing how \"television kills telephony in broth
ers' broil\" (52.18). Elsewhere in the Wake identified as a \"nightlife instrume
nt,\" the \"faroscope of television\" (150.32- 33; < Gr. tele, \"far off\" and L
. visio, \"seeing\") would suggest a form of vi- sion radiated up \"under the cl
osed eyes\" (107.28); while \"telephony\" would comparably suggest hearing bled
up in dormant ears. Having dreamt of the singing of the ballad in I.ii, that is,
HCE's hallucinatorily active eyes and) 56) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
ears now shut off, to leave him possessed only of \"exrace eyes\" (51.25-26 [\"e
x-human\" eyes capable only of scotographic imperception]), and a mind bearing a
corroding residuum of vision that generates this \"touching seene\" (the spelli
ng would make this a \"scene\" already \"seen,\" one washed away with all intern
al \"see-in,\" into a \"seeing\" of this sort):) . . . seein as ow his thoughts
consisted chiefly of the cheerio, he aptly sketched. . . the touching seene. The
solence of that stilling! Here one might a fin fell. Boomster rombombonant! It
scenes like a landescape . . . or some seem on some dimb Arras, dumb as Mum's mu
tyness, this mimage of the seventyseventh kusin of kristansen is odable to os ac
ross the wineless Ere no ceder nor mere eerie nor liss potent of sugges- tion th
an in the tales of the tingmount. (Prigged!) (52.34-53.6)) That this passage int
ricately reworks a sentence \"prigged\" from Joyce's A Por- trait of the Artist
as a Youna Man conveniently allows us, at Joyce's insis- tence, to compare the p
resentment of character in the earlier novel with \"the representation of no-con
sciousness\" afforded by the \"blink pitches\" of his scotographic \"book of the
dark.\" The relevant passage in A Portrait shows Stephen Dedalus looking soulfu
lly at Dublin and meditating on the Viking \"thingmote,\" the public assembly-pl
ace around which \"the seventh city of Christendom\" historically aggregated: 18
) . . . the dim fabric of the city lay prone in the haze. Like a scene on some v
ague arras, old as man's weariness, the image of the seventh city of christendom
was visible to him across the timeless air no more weary nor less patient of su
bjection than in the days of the thingmote. (P, 167)) Dedalus may be absentminde
d, but far less so than the \"very pure non- descript\" depicted asleep in the c
orresponding passage from Pinneaans Wake, who lies \"still\" and alone (L. solus
) in a \"situation\" (Da. stiJJjna) per- vaded by a \"silence\" so deep that he
could hear a pin drop (\"The solence of that stilling! Here one might a fin fell

\.") Since the orthographical softening of \"pin\" into \"fin\" (Shelta, \"man\"
) suggests that this man himself has fallen into hushed sleep (\"Finn fell\,") t
he succeeding line evokes the reverberant felling of a \"tree\" (Du. boom): Big
Pin! Even the drop of a pin, it seems, would be thunderously momentous in this p
art of the \"nought.\" Moreover, what \"seems\" to be \"scene\" here (\" It scen
es,\" \"some seem\") is the mere \"mimage\" (or \"mirage\" of an \"image\") of\"
a landescape\" that is no more clearly a dreamed \"landscape\" than an \"escape
\" from \"land\" altogether. For this extinguished example of man's mightiness (
\"Mum's mutyness\") now lies \"mum,\" \"dumb,\" in \"muteness,\" against a \"dim
b\" (\"dim\" and \"dumb\ background. The senses of taste and smell, evidently cu
ltivated in great ear-) Nothina in Particular) 57)))
nestness earlier in the day by the Wake's hard-drinking hero, seem to have becom
e \"patrified\" (\"the wineless Ere,\" \"no odor\.") Anything potentially audibl
e to him fills only an empty skull (\"odable to as\" [L. os, \"bone\"], Ger. oed
, oeder [\"empty,\" \"more empty\"], \"no eer . . . \" \"nor liss\.") Its blacke
d- out content therefore resembles imperceptible static washed through ether ove
r the wireless air: \"With nought a wired from the wordless either\" (223.34). \
"There [is],\" in short, \"not very much windy Nous [Gr. 'mind'] blowing at the
given moment through the hat of Mr Melancholy Slow\" (56.28-30 )-\"Melancholy Sl
ow,\" of course, because he just lies there, \"hat\" instead of \"head\" to evok
e a heady structure void of content, and the Greek \"Nous\" rather than the Engl
ish \"mind\" to suggest the \"noose,\" at whose va- cant center humans also disa
ppear. 19 So \"patrified\" are this man's five senses, \"as a murder effect\" (3
45.7), that subsequent lines invite us to wonder after the incessant manner of t
he Wake ifhe has merely \"tropped head\" or actually \"dropped dead\": \"D.e.e.d
! Edned, ended or sleeping soundlessly? Favour with your tongues!\" (54.5-6 [the
cere- monial Latin phrase Pavete linauis means literally \"favor with your tong
ues,\" but proverbially \"listen in silence\"]) . 20 The lines invite us to \"li
sten\" atten- tively, then, but only by metamnesically \"falling silent\" as if
in sound, soundless sleep, so to bring to mind rich \"blank memory\" of the \"no
ught's\" \"Real Absence.\" Or, as Joyce himself advises in this region of his \"
darkumen\":) . . . all, hearing in this new reading. . . could simply imagine th
emselves in their bosom's inmost core, as pro tern locurns timesported acorss th
e yawning (abyss), as once they were [\"across\" the \"abyss\" that opens in a b
ody (\"corse\") stilled in sleep (\"yawn\]") . . . listening to the cockshyshoot
er's evensong evocation of the doomed . . . silkhouatted . . . aginsst the dusk
[made insubstantial as the content of a \"sil- houette\" or the inside of a \"si
lk hat\"] . . . while olover his exculpatory features. . . the ghost ofresignati
on diffused a spectral appealingness. . . . (55.33-56.17)) As the \"television\"
bleakly radiating this dusky \"landescape\" under closed eyelids continues to d
iffuse with that \"dusk,\" moreover, it washes out into another image of scotogr
aphic negativity (57.23-29) and finally renders \"the blanche patch\" representa
tive of HCE's experience in the \"nought\" a blanched-out white: \"winter. . . o
ver[s] the pages of nature's book\" (57.30- 31) and \"the shadow of the huge out
lander\"-the \"silkhouatte\" of this man somnolently slipped \"out of land\" and
all earthly definition-vanishes sightlessly \"mid pillow talk. . . through Mole
sworth Fields\" (57.34-35) into the obscurity of another \"nonactionable\" and \
"antilibellous\" legal trial, where the reader is now asked to formulate ongoing
and \"jostling judgements of those, as all should owe, malrecapturable days\" (
58.21-22):) 58) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
\"wowhere are those yours of Yestersdays?\" (54.3). For should he live to the pr
overbial age of seventy, the \"ordinary man with that large big nonobli head\" (
L. non oblitus, \"not forgotten\,") and that blanko berbecked fischial ekksprezz
ion\" (64.30-31) will spend almost seven thousand \"malrecaptur- able days\" of
his life as these in dreamless sleep-twenty years-\"meet there night. . . made t
heir nought\" (67.3-4 [\"mid the night, made there nought\"]), \"edned, ended or

sleeping soundlessly.\" \"Fischial,\" in these lines, would evoke both \"facial

\" and \"visual\" properties of \"that big nonobli head,\" though the term \"bla
nko\" would blank them out; while the Danish negative eks- (\"ex-\,") abnegating
an English \"expression\" already obliter- ated by the Italian sprezzato (\"bro
ken\,") would comparably x-out expres- sion, vision, and their facial ground alt
ogether, so to suggest on the Wake's \"blink pitch\" how sleep can \"bash in Pat
ch's blank face beyond recognition\" and render him \"not a tall man, not at all
man. No such parson\" (63.5, 10-11). Obliterating every term in the literate st
ream of consciousness whose evolving totality means Stephen Dedalus in A Portrai
t, the no less richly particularized \"blotch and void\" of Pinneaans Wake yield
s, in this region of the book, \"a poor trait of the artless\" (1I4.32)-where \"
trait\" might be run back etymologically to the Latin tractus (\"a draft, a line
\,") and \"artless\" comparably construed as an etymological synonym for \"inert
\" (from the L. inartis [\" artless, idle\"]). For the Wake's \"poor trait of th
e artless\" renders in particular the scotographic \"indentity\" of \"someone im
particular\" (602.7) lying \"inert,\" without a \"trait,\" in the \"nought.\" Wh
ere a work titularly conceived as A Portrait might well invite comparisons with
pictures hung in Ireland's National Gallery, then, a \"specturesque\" \"poortrai
t\" like that cap- tured by the Wake's \"obliterated negative\" could only find
room in a \"no- tional gullery\"-to whose contemplation chapter I.iii now in fac
t returns us as we read again of \"Madam's Toshowus [lying] completely complacen
t, an exegious monument, aerily perennious,\" slipped with \"bland sol\" \"into
the nethermore\" (57.26): the wording now suggests that a \"blind soul\" has van
ished, with \"the pleasant sun\" (L. sol blandus) , into a netherwordly nevermor
e. Locating us beneath \"an exeguous [scanty] monument\"-\"soon, monu- mentally
at least. . . to be, to be his mausoleum\" (S6.12-I4)-these lines now require br
ief reconsideration, by way of an \"a bnihilisation of the etym\" like that unde
rtaken in the etymological chart labeled figure 2. I, the top of which is all li
terate English, the very bottom only obliterate \"nat language.\" For parts of s
leep that lie beneath \"memory\" and \"remembrance,\" according to]oyce's \"adam
elegy\" (77.26), lie equivalently beneath \"themanyoumeant\ Nothina in Particula
r) 59)))
reminiscence) memory i) remember . commemoration t commentary memOir commemorate
\" memorandum remembrance I memo commentator comment) man' meaning' mean bemoan
) mind mental remind , reminder I mentality mentatIOn) mentionable f automatic a
mentia automaton ament automation mention memorize memorable memorial immemorial
) r'\" M.E. r . b . M.E. mmde Imenen M. E. t M.E. menen I mone O.E. T bem;enan O
.E. *man (complaint)) O.E. m;enan (to tell. signify, complain) r) Germ. *main-)
Germ.) Germ. *gar-mundi-) dementia demented dement) O.E. gemynde) L. amens, amen
tis (out of one's mind)) 1) O.Fr. mention) Ahriman (Zoroastrian god of evil) O.F
r. memorie,) t maenad) Gr. automatos (self-will- ing; acting by itself) l' Gr. a
utos (self) + -matos 1 L. maenas Gr. -matos (willing)) Avestan anra (evil) + mai
nyu f) L. mentio (mention; com- memoration by speech or writing)) memoire) t) re
miniscent reminisce) O.Fr. remembrer) L.L. rememorare (call to mind again; remem
ber) L. commemorare (to call to mind, recall. relate)) L. memorare, memorandus (
to bring to mind)) L. memoria (memory, history, tradition) V) L. memor (mindful)
.. \\ \\ \\) *memus') r) L. commentum (invention, contrivance. interpretation))
L. demens, dementis (out of one's mind; mad)) Gr.) Avestan mainyu (spirit)) mam
as (she who is mad) l') *ml)-ti- *m1.J-to- \037'm\"y\ L. remi niscens (present p
articiple of reminisci) t L. reminisci (call to mind. recollect)) L. comminisci,
commentus (to think out, devise. contrive)) L. meminisse (imperative, memento)
(to remember)) mania mal memento 1 mani\037c -mama minion mal) \". Fr. mignon (
darling)) -ma -ma) *man-) Ger. Minne- singer) Old High Ger. minna (love [as a fo
rm of memory])) Gr. n (prol) Germ. *minthJa) Gr. mant, (seer, proph) Gr. mania (
madness, frenzy)) ,., , , *me-mn-us 3) *ml)-) \"', '\" \" '\" \" \"' \"' \"' \"
\"' ..... ..... ...... ...... ......) Figure 2.1. Etymological chart: *men-. \"U
ndernearth\" \"the manyoumeant\" (610.4,318.31)) 1. Pokorny, 700; Shipley, 248;
Skeat, 350.) 2. Grandsaignes d'Hauterive, 124; Shipley, 248; Skeat, 360.) 3. Dot

ted lines indicate derivations now discredited but speculatively entertained in

Joyce's day; see A. Walde and J. B. Hofmann, Lateinisches EtymoloBisches Worterb
uch (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1940), II, p. 68.) proto-l ndo- E uropea I (to thi
nk. have the r)))
muse mosaic monument money monster anamnesis museum music admonition'\" mint dem
onstrate remonstrance musical \037 remonstrate musician demonstration monumental
\037\037::\037\037:\037\037\037\037 \037::\037\037:\037\037:\037i\037e monition
M.E. mynt M.E. moneye t) Gr. Mousa (the Muse) I'\" I\"m) / \\tomhi) tor) mathes
is) mathematics) Gr. mathesis (learning)) Gr. ta mathematika) Gr. mathema (somet
hing learned; science) t) Gr. manthanein) Med. L. mosaicus, musaicus + Late Gr.
L. musa mouselOn (a mosaic)) a.Fr. moneie) a.E. mynet t Germ. *munita) L. moniti
o (warning)) L. ad-monere (to remind [of a fact or duty]) L. prae-monere (to war
n, foretell)) L. museum (library, study) t Gr. mouseion (place of the Muses)) L.
musica (music, poetry. learned study) 1 L. monumentum I (memorial) Gr. mousike
techne (art of the Muses)) L. moneta (money, mint) <t L. Moneta (\"the Warner\":
epi thet of Juno whose temple housed the Roman mint)) f) Gr. mouseios (of the M
uses)) t) L. monere, monitus (to make think, remind, admonish)) *mendh-) /) *mon
-eyo- /') amnesty) mnemonic) amnesia) mnemonics) monstrance) Med. L.) Gr. amnest
ia (amnesty) t) monstrantia) L. de-monstrare (to show, explain) L. re-monstrare
(to show. point out)) Gr. anamnesis (recollection)) Gr. amnestos (forgotten, no
longer remembered)) Gr. mnemonikos (of memory)) Gr. anamimnt?skein (to call to m
ind again)) Gr. mneman (mindful)) Gr. a- (not) + mnasthai) Gr. mimneskein (to ca
ll to mind, remember)) L. monstrum (divine portent; prodigy; marvel)) *mna-) *mo
(318.31) before falling there (the term buries \"man\" and \"meaning\" under a \
"monument\") . As the trained senses of the man \"tropped head\" at the Wake blo
wout and \"nearvanash\" in the \"nought,\" that is-together with all the laws of
which intellection and recollection are the abstract sum-so too does \"memory,\
" and the whole field of \"meaning\" made possible in wakeful- ness by the disci
plined wiring of eyes and ears to legible letters and legis- lated \"things,\" t
he latter term genetically related to the \"thingmote\" that Stephen Dedalus hea
dily contemplates in A Portrait and that the \"aerily pe- rennious\" \"Headmound
\" certainly does not in the Wake's \"poor trait\" (con- ceptually, \"things\" d
erive from the broad Teutonic term thina [\"public as- sembly\"] and at one time
designated what a group of people such as gathered in the thingmote agreed to o
bserve) . Since \"memory\" and \"meaning,\" moreover, are only two in a long ser
ies of etymologically toppling dominoes that include \"man,\" \"mind,\" and \"me
ntality,\" as well as \"mentionability\" and \"commentary,\" parts of sleep that
fall beneath \"the manyoumeant\"-\"undernearth the memorialorum\" (6IO-4)-lie a
lso beyond the writing of literate \"memoirs\" (L. memori- a/ium) and so require
the obliterate reduction of the Wake's sleeping subject to a \"belowes hero\" (
343.17 [\"below zero\"])-a \"whosethere outofman\" (19.17)-whose life in the nig
ht becomes a vast \"apersonal problem, a lo- cative enigma\" (135.25-26). And \"
there too a slab slobs, immermemorial\" (600.26 [Ger. immer, \"always\"; \"immem
orial\"]). For immemorial sleep finds this \"very pure nondescript\" with \"not
a knocker on his head or a nick- number on the manyoumeant . . . wooving nihilnu
lls from Memoland,\" as \"his spectrem\" lies lost in \"the irised sea\" (318.30
-34): the \"memo\" \"woven\" here would be of \"nothing\" (L. nihil), \"no one\"
(L. nullus) , and a \"nobody\" (L. nemo), within the closed eyes of whose \"spe
ctre\" the \"spectrum\" has blacked out. \"Reduced to nothing\" in a body of mat
ter rendered inert and drained of perception under the force of sleep, the man \
"trapped head\" at the Wake so becomes, \"as a murder of corpse\" (254.32 [\"as
a matter of course\"]), \"the presence (of a curpse)\" (224.4-S)-\"to say nothin
a of him having done what you know howyousaw whenyouheard whereyouwot . . . unde
r heaviest corpsus exemption\" (362.14-17; italics mine). Not quite as dead as h
e will ever become, he nonetheless becomes in dreamless sleep, as dead as he wil

l ever have occasion to know. He now lies \"undernearth\" \"the manyoumeant\" in

a second sense, \"laid to rust\" there \"under the Help- less Corpses Enactment
\" (423.30), and in ways that will merit further study. As will have become evid
ent in passing, \"A stodae Analeshman has been worked by eccentricity\" in Pinne
aans Wake (284.LI); for Joyce's \"poor trait\ 62) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
makes of a man \"tropped head\" \"in bed\" not merely something of \"a stage Eng
lishman,\" but an astonishingly \"stodgy\" one, since he has, like \"Madam's Tos
howus,\" essentially no ideas at all. A sustained reading of Pinneaans Wake actu
ally does manage to draw a reader deeply into a \"blank memory\" of the \"percep
ted nought\" experienced in the night; and in doing so, it opens all manner of i
nquiry into what precisely the \"Vacant. Mined\" could have been about in those
parts of its life when it seemed not to be there at all. By probing into these e
xtents of emptiness, moreover, ignored by most writers on dreams, Joyce fathomle
ssly deepened the \"mountainy molehill\" of the night, finding there much more t
han the primitive reasoning of the dream which so compelled the attention of Vic
o, Freud, Levy-Bruhl, and other students of the savage mind. In \"reconstructing
the nocturnal life, \" he was also exercising the whole twentieth-century fasci
nation with nothing- ness. \"My eyes are tired,\" he wrote to his son Giorgio th
ree years before he completed Pinneaans Wake. \"For over half a century, they ha
ve gazed into nullity where they have found a lovely nothing\" (L, III, 359, 36I
n.). As Joyce's contemporaries were showing in countless ways over the two decad
es during which he sustained the writing of Pinneaans Wake, nothing- ness is a f
ormative trait and invention of the human. Nonexistent in a mate- rial reality t
hat keeps on pouring forth stars, seasons, and generations of species with plent
iful regularity, it seems not to exist outside of human minds, except when human
minds themselves invested with the capability of knowing it, choose to implant
it there. Since individuals tutored in all those words and abilities layered up
over the Indo-European root *men- seem able to know \"nothing\" only in the \"Re
al Absence\" of the night, the experience of sleep becomes, at the Wake, the con
crete reality out of which the whole category of nothingness immanently wells. S
leep's \"Real Ab- sence\" is the experience of nothing, really endured, in parti
cular. These observations will moreover suggest how organically Joyce, one of th
e century's great humanists, managed to synthesize in a work essentially like Ul
ysses, but\" about the night,\" some of the principal intellectual preoc- cupati
ons of a culture already moving away from the scientific study of man into the \
"new scientific\" study of \"our whosethere outofman\"; the same pre- occupation
s that would compel twentieth-century thinkers to contemplate variously the rela
ted properties of aboriginality, prehistory, unconscious- ness, and nothingness.
His \"knock[ed] out\" \"belowes hero\" lies in a resonant position: a man at th
e dazzlingly developed height of millennia of evolved civilization-a twentieth-c
entury Westerner-he lies \"reduced to nothing\" within a body \"tropped head,\"
experiencing both the extinction of his con-) Nothina in Particular) 63)))
sciousness and the nothingness above which his daily life, over years of per- so
nal and ages of collective history, has been masoned and layered. His va- cant p
assage through the \"noughttime,\" accordingly, broadens out into endlessly stun
ning perspectives. While it is doubtlessly true that HCE and his wife are by day
as rationally individualized citizens of the Western world as anyone) whereat s
amething is rivisible by nighttim, may be involted into the zeroic couplet, pall
s pell inhis heventh glike noughty times 00, find, if you are not literally cooe
ffi- cient, how minney combinaisies and permutandies can be played on the international surd! (284.8-14)) As this \"mythametical\" discussion of surds, irrati
onal numbers, un- knowns, and zeros will suggest (286.23), the \"risible, \"invi
sible,\" \"absurd\" nothing to which \"Here Comes Everybody\" (32.18-19) in the
world is inde- terminately reduced in the night bears darkly prolific powers. Si
nce it is out of this indifferentiated state, every morning and through all the
mornings in history, that all the manifold and splintered facets of the wakeful

world emerge-striving individuals, nations in strife, tongues-sleep's \"Real Absence\" becomes, at the Wake, a form of \"substrance\" (597.7 [elemental \"substance,\" as discovered in somebody \"under a trance\"J), a torrent streaming e
verywhere unconsciously under the evident surface of things (597. I -8ff.) . Jus
t as in real-world arithmetic, so in the nocturnal \"aristmystic\" of the Wake (
293.18): if an aspect of \"the logos. . . comes to nullum in the endth\" in this
book (298.20 [\"to nothing, in the end\"J), it is nonetheless and for that reas
on capable of modulating through an infinitely expanding series of \"combination
s\" and \"permutations\" that lift it, through \"nullum in the end th\" (0 n) ,
into everything- oo -\" no thing making newthing wealthshow- ever for a silly ol
d Sol, healthytobedder and latewiser\" (253.8-9 [for a sleep- ily \"silly old so
ul\" waiting for \"old Sol\" to rise]): \"Wins won is nought, twigs too is nil,
tricks trees makes nix, fairs fears stoops at nothing\" (361. 1-3). In its richl
y particularlized \"nat language,\" Pinneaans Wake shows that the hu- man experi
ence of \"one percepted nought\" can be articulated with as much richness and ze
st, pathos and humor, as the plenitude of wakeful life. In ways to be made clear
in passing, it finds this \"nought\" everywhere and al- ways underlying and cir
cumscribing the living of life in the Daily World. \"We see nothingness,\" in a
way distinct to Joyce, \"making the world irrides- cent, casting a shimmer over
things.\" 21 Profoundly engaged by the \"hole affair\" it reconstructively fills
in, Pin- neaans Wake manages to spin a universe, an \"obliterated negative\" of
one now present to literate consciousness, out of the study of sleep's \"Real Ab
sence.\" Much of this \"huge shaping of literary anti-matter,\" a kind of a phen
omenology of lack of mind, is difficul t to read not simply because of its langu
age, but also because its scotographic \"nat language\" struggles hard to convey
to a rationally lettered reader, in detailed \"blotch and void,\" experi- ences
that lie in unconsciousness beneath \"the manyoumeant.\" 22 Subse- quent chapte
rs, then, lead into places where, consciousness moving out of human experience a
nd \"noughttime\" moving in, man is not, and \"our whose there outofman\" and \"
belowes hero\" becomes principle. The first of these infinitely expanding sites,
in a work with the word Wake engraved on its spine and dust jacket, will inevit
ably be the grave, humanity's first writ- ing, 50,000 years of it engraved on th
e surface of the earth before more or- nate engravings and the Western alphabet
proper began to flower, with spir- its, around the dark locale of the tomb.) Not
hina in Particular) 65)))
CHAPTER) THREE) \"Finneaan\ Momentarily, we might construe the hero of Pinneaans
Wake as \"Finnegan\" (3.19), though for reasons gradually to become clear, this
is no more his real name than \"Headmound\" is. \"Finnegan\" is a cipher for th
e \"perpendicular person\" (60.25) shown \"outlined aslumbered\" in Relief Map B
, and it indi- cates that he is quite fully \"Dead to the World\" (105.29). Our
idiomatic cus- tom of saying that people asleep are \"dead to the world,\" howev
er, now raises the troublesome question of how being \"dead to the world,\" not
awake, resting in peace \"in bed\" differs from what one foresees happening to a
nyone \"dead to the world,\" at his wake, resting in peace, and also \"in bed\"particularly if we dig a little more deeply into these terms. Etymologically, th
e word \"bed\" derives from the proto-Indo-European root'\" bhedh-, meaning \"to
dig or bury\" or, in nominal form, \"a hollow in the ground, for sleeping\" (th
is radical sense still survives in expressions like \"vegetable bed\" [18.17-19.
19], \"flower bed\" [475.7- II], \"lake bed\" [76.14-32], and \"bed of rock\" [4
72,2]). While the etymology certainly sheds grim light on Indo-European man's sl
eeping arrangements in eras prior to the inven- tion of \"tick[s]\" (26.15), \"c
ots\" (39.33), \"bunk[s]\" (40.19), \"shakedown[s]\" (40.25-26), \"lodginghouses
\" (39.31), \"bedroom suite[s]\" (41. 16), and \"inns\" (7.5), it interests us h
ere because of the spectral resonances it inevitably generates throughout Pinnea
ans Wake. If the man \"tropped head\" \"in bed\" at the Wake is indeed \"dead to

the world\" and can largely only \"no,\" how can he \"know\" that the \"bed\" i
n which he lies is not, \"as a murder effect\ 66)))
(345.7), a \"bed of soil?\" Or, to bend the same question back into the experience of \"our own nighttime,\" how does anyone fully asleep and \"dead to the wo
rld\" know that he is not really dead to the world? And conversely, how does any
one actually dead to the world know that he is not simply asleep? The problem is
all the more perturbing because the word \"bed\" stands in an oddly complementa
ry relation to the word \"cemetery,\" which derives from the Greek koimeterion (
\"sleeping room,\" \"dormitory\") -in turn from the verb koima6 (\"to put to bed
\") -and which customarily designates a place where people \"lie in peat\" (4.15
[but also \"in peace\"]) in much the same posture as that enjoyed by the strati
fied humanoid shown \"tropped head\" in Relief Map B, whom we might now begin to
think of as \"laid to rust\" (3.23 [but also \"rest\"]), \"pending a rouseructi
on of his bogey\" (499. I [a \"resurrection of the body\"]), after having been \
"recalled and scrapheaped by the Maker\" (98. 17). Since, at his Wake, \"be ther
e some who mourn him, concluding him dead\" (489.1), it may well be that our her
o has \"indeeth\" \"tropped head\" (79.17 [\"in death\" \"indeed\"]); and that \
"now of parts un- known\" (380.23), \"he went under the grass quilt on us\" (380
.26). For the dis- tinction between an unconscious body (Eng. \"corpse\") and an
unconscious \"body\" (L. corpus) is a thin one; while anyone \"laid to rest\" \
"in bed,\" by a slight inflection of terms, would also be \"embedded.\" That we
drift through sleep in places primordially conceived as burial sites and are lai
d to rest at our wakes in places originally designating bed- rooms highlights th
e bottomlessness of the negatively definitive term \"un- conscious,\" in turn ra
ising questions about the indistinctly differentiated unconsciousnesses of sleep
and death. What internally distinguishes eight hours of sleepily peaceful requi
escence from \"(hypnos chilia eonion!) \" (78.3-4 [Gr. \"sleep for thousands of
ages\"])? As the nineteenth-century literature on sleep alone attests, students
of the dark used to stand so fasci- nated before the annihilative powers of the
night, until modern thought channeled attention into those more accessible parts
of sleep surfacing in dreams, that a representative figure like Schopenhauer co
uld say, summarily, \"there is no radical difference between sleep and death.\"1
He would only have been expressing a belief so commonplace and so primal as to
go back to the source of our culture, and the Greeks, for whom Death and Sleep w
here twin brothers, both sons of Night. According to Lessing, \"the only genuine
and general representation of Death\" for the Greeks was \"a picture of sleep;\
" and of sleep, of death. 2 Similarly for Joyce, any genuine \"recon- struction
of the nocturnal life\" would have entailed a \"grave word\" or two) \"Pinneaan\
(243.30) about the interior of the coffin. \"Sleep is death stirred by dreams, d
eath is dreamless sleep.\" 3 To an alert rationalist, the distinction between a
person at his wake (\"Rot him!\" [422.9]) and a person not awake (\"wake him!\"
[7.3]) will be all too clear: in a word, \"wake not, walk not\" (546.1-2). But t
he distinction cor- rodes almost entirely if one cultivates the \"ideal insomnia
\" that Pinneaans Wake requires and tries to enter the \"eyewitless foggus\" of
a man \"tropped head\" and \"dead to the world\" \"in bed\" himself. The requisi
te exercise would involve sinking again into the \"blank memory\" preserved from
last night's stint of embedment, now to observe how deeply the \"hole affair\"
(S3s.20)-and a \"hole\" is always edged with a little loam-is \"rich in death an
ticipated\" (78.6). Sleep takes place \"in your own absence\" (189.31)- your own
\"Real Absence\" (536.5-6) -where \"life, it is true, will be a blank without y
ou because avicuum's not there at all\" (473.6-7). Anyone crawl- ing into some b
ed \"todie\" (60.28, 381.23, 408.22 [not inevitably \"today\"]) will \"recoil\"
how he lay there, \"feeling dead\" (269.FI), \"very dead\" (612.4), resting in p
eace, and \"thinking himself to death\" (422.9 [as opposed, for in- stance, to s
ome brainy conclusion]). \"Indead\" (505.21, 560.18), the \"hole affair\" seems

to force one to \"dejeunerate into a skillyton be thinking him- self to death\"

(422.8-9): \"a bad attack of maggot it feels like\" (410.5). As a \"thanatomimet
ic\" state, moreover-like \"playing possum\" (96.33- 34)-sleep makes one an invo
luntary participant in eerily extended \"funeral games\" (332.26, 515.23, 602.22
[as opposed to \"funeral earnestnesses\.") You \"drop in your tracks\" (26.16)\"f[a]1l stiff\" (379.18 [\"full stop\"]). There, \"trapped head,\" amid \"the r
edissolusingness of mindmouldered ease\" (143.14), one passes into a state of \"
exanimation\" (143.8-9,87.34) and then \"[goes] about his business, whoever it w
as, saluting corpses, as a metter of corse\" (37.9-10 [\"as a matter of course,\
" one \"meets a corpse\"]).4 Anyone can playa few of these \"funeral games\" whe
n he goes to bed \"todie\"-\"in- dead,\" \"he musts\" (325.19 [because he \"must
\"])-there to wonder how deeply the \"hole affair\" implicated him in \"funeral
fare or fun fain real\" (83.22 [\"real\" \"funeral,\" or one merely \"feigned\"
in \"fun\"?]). Were one to ask what \"did die\" \"doom\" last night (223.12; d.
II 1.2, 358.36), one good an- swer would be to say that \"I was intending a fune
ral. Simply and samply\" (491.2-3 [not \"attending\" one]); for the puristic int
ention of anyone \"dead to the world\" is in some sense easy to gauge. \"On the
verge of selfabyss\" (40.23), \"so to shape, I chanced to be stretching, in the
shadow as I thought, the liferight out of myself in my . . . imaginating\" (487,
13-15 [I did not) 68) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
think, therefore I must not have been]). \"lndead,''''1 godead\" (251.26) \"ever
y die\" (283.F2 [\"every day\"]), And \"every die\" \"yew yourselves\" (98.36),
even the \"most umbrasive of yews all\" (362.17 [\"impressive\"]) comparably lie
there resting in peace in some imperceived \"bed,\" \"dead certain however of n
euthing whatever\" (455.21-22). All those \"yews,\" occulting a batch of decompo
sed \"yous\" (d. 23.36, 232.13, 469.27) would adorn the cemeterial \"bed,\" whil
e the umbra in \"umbrasive\" (L., \"shade\") would evoke a dark and chilly \"und
erworld\" (147.27) occupied by the \"troppedhead.\" \"Howday you doom?\" (517.31
; d. 483.18). \"Strangely cult for this ceasing of the yore\" (279. 2 -3) . The
\"veiled\" and \"blank memory\" \"recoil[ed]\" from last night by every \"tombs,
deep and heavy\" in the world (503.26 [every \"Tom, Dick and Harry\"]) opens no
w with problematic lucidity \"to the unaveiling memory of. Peacer the grave\" (S
03.26-27)-where the end-stopped \"of\" evokes a world void of objects (both of p
repositions and of perception), while the \"misappearance\" (186.12) within the
\"peaceful grave\" of a dubious \"Peter the Great\" suggests that in sleep one n
ot only \"goes dead\" but also becomes, because immobily \"perpetrified\" (23.30
[\"thoroughly petrified\"]), a \"Peter\" of sorts (the Latinized Gr. petrus, in
a pun that Joyce regarded as sanctioning his own, means both \"Peter\" and \"ro
ck\.5") One might begin simply to regard the \"loamsome\" (26.15) \"hole affair\
" of sleep, then, as a species of \"death he has lived through\" (293.3-4)-a dea
th of the sort that befallsJoyce'sdummy- like hero. For \"Charles de Simples had
an infirmierity complexe before he died a natural death\" (29I.F8): the hint of
\"infirmity\" lands him \"in bed,\" where a nightly variety of \"natural death\
" foreshadows the ultimate one. The same kind of complementarity as that blurrin
g together the meanings of \"bed\" and \"cemetery\" and rendering indistinct the
unconsciousnesses of sleep and death links Pinneaans Wake with the Irish-Americ
an ballad of \"Finnegan's Wake.\" As most readers know, the ballad tells the sto
ry of a whiskey-loving hod-carrier named Tim Finnegan (4.18, 26-27) who goes to
work each morning fortified by a drop of \"the craythur\" (4.29). \"With a love
of the liquor Tim was born\" (4.33-34), though it proves to be his undoing:) One
momina Tim felt tipplina full, His head felt heavy, his hod it did shake He fel
l from the ladder and broke his skull So they carried him home his corpse to wak
e. They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet, And laid him out upon the bed) (6.7
-8) (6.8-9) (6.10)) \"Pinneaan\ 69)))
With a aallon of whiskey at his feet And a barrel of porter at his head.) (6.262 7)) The mourners at Finnegan's wake-an Irish one, in which riotous gaiety co-

exists with funereal grief-gradually begin arguing, and in the ensuing ruc- tio
ns one of them hurls a noggin of whiskey across the room. But the liquor misses
its intended target and splashes instead all over the corpse of Fin- negan, who
revives and rises from his bed bawling out, \"Thanam o'n dhoul, do ye think I'm
dead?\" (d. 24.15 [the Gaelic phrase means \"Soul of the devil\" and recurs in v
arious forms at 74.8, 258.8-9, 317.3-4, 321.29, and 499. 1 7- 18]). 6 The bearin
g of the ballad on a reconstruction of the night is finally quite simple. Minima
l reflection on Finnegan's fate will suggest that anybody who gets up out of bed
with a mouth that big and a thirst that grand cannot really have been dead at a
ll. In Joyce's appropriation of the ballad, \"Fin- negan's Wake\" simply becomes
a comically parabolic account of what it is like to \"black out\" and fall, tho
ugh asleep, so to find oneself \"laid out upon the bed,\" \"dead to the world,\"
\"rehearsing somewan's funeral\" (477.9)-but ultimately to undergo a thirsty \"
resurrection of the body\" under the agency of animating \"spirits\" \"come to m
ournhim\" (12.14-15 [\"come tomorrow\"]). Sleeping, from this perspective, impli
cates one in effortless \"rehearsing\" for \"the big sleep,\" \"the long sleep,\
" or the \"long rest\" of commoner idiom (25.26; U, 110 [the recurrent pun on \"
hearse\" is a grim one]). But because \"the remains must be removed before eaght
hours sharp\" at this funeral \"re- hearsal\" (617.16,27 [\"eight hours\" being
the length of sleep]), the \"hole af- fair\" might more accurately be called an
\"ephumeral\" (369.33 [an \"ephem- eral\" \"funeral\"]), in which the body lies
\"dead to the world\" in merely \"a protem grave\" (76.21). Judging from a ters
e comment that Joyce himself made about \"Finnegan's Wake,\" in a letter written
after the publication of Pinneaans Wake, this was how he read the ballad (L, II
I, 448): he noted simply that Finnegan was an exemplar of\"Scheintod\" (Ger. \"a
pparent death,\" \"suspended animation\.") Or, as the Wake puts it, \"Tam Fanaga
n's weak yat his still's going strang\" (276.21-22 [he may be \"still\" and \"de
ad to the world,\" that is, but his \"spirits\" sublimate as potently in the dar
k as any in any \"still\"]). No differently from anyone's experience of sleep, t
hen, Finnegan's experience at his wake might be regarded simply as an \"ephumera
l\" drift through \"states of suspensive exanimation\" (143.8-9) endured between
pe- riods of wakefulness that find him engaged in the masonry of the civilized
world (\"Ho, Time Timeaaen, Wake\" [415.15]). Like others who \"rise after-) 70)
fall\" (78.7), \"Finnegan\" becomes one bedrock on which the Wake rests be- caus
e being dead to the world, immemorially unconscious, is the basic state ofthe ni
ght, the darker ground out of which the more colorful eventfulnesses of dreams a
rise. This is also to begin noting that Pinneaans Wake tells the same story that
\"Finnegan's Wake\" does, but with a difference; for the Wake is about a wake a
s perceived not from the \"point of view\" of any wakeful mourners or garrulous
songsters, but from the \"eyewitless foggus\" of the body \"trapped head\" \"in
bed.\" And there are, accordingly, spooky corollaries. Insofar as the Wake is el
aborately reconstructing the \"Real Absence\" that a man lying \"dead to the wor
ld\" at his own \"ephumeral\" can \"no,\" Joyce is putting the proposition \"Sup
potes a Ventriliquorst Merries a Corpse\" (105.20), where the wording in part re
calls the ballad of \"Finnegan's Wake\" (\"pates,\" \"liquor,\" \"merries,\" \"c
orpse\,") but also indicates the Wake's intention of rendering, in its own spect
ral form of \"ventriloquism,\" the muddy \"explots\" (124.29 [not exactly \"expl
oits\"]) of a corpse that is \"dud\" (6.10), \"duddandgunne\" (25.23-24), \"noew
hemore. Finiche!\" (7.15): \"you skull see\" (17.18). Joyce is also saying to hi
s reader, in concert with the dark artiste in the Wake who \"ma[kes] his boo to
the public\" (423.22 [not \"bow\"]), \"I'd love to take you for a bugaboo ride a
nd play funfer all\" (3\302\2604. II - 1 2 [\" funeral\"] ). And, wi th frighten
ing effect, he does just that, though with much \"fun for all\" along the way (3
01.13; d. 13.15, 111.15, 120.10,458.22 [\"funeral\"]). In directing our atten- t
ion to the \"blank memory\" of the \"funeral games\" we all \"rehearsed\" last n
ight, the Wake therefore obliges itself \"to reconstruct for us . . . inexactly
the same as a mind's eye view, how these funeral games. . . took place\" (515.22

-25, 33). The \"hole affair\" now becomes an \"undertaking\" in both senses of t
hat word, with Joyce himself, like the Wakean artiste \"suspected among morticia
ns\" (172. 12) , playing the part of the \"premature gravedigger\" (189.28) or \
"underthaner\" (335.36 [\"entertainer\"-\"undertaker\"]), whose business it is t
o conduct for us, in a manner of \"grand stylish gravedigging\" (121.32), an exc
eedingly peculiar species of \"ante mortem\" (423.21 [\"post- mortem\"]). As a \
"representation\" contradictively structured around the ex- perience of \"your o
wn absence\" (189.31) in the dead of \"nought\" (368.36), the Wake offers its re
ader \"an admirable verbivocovisual presentment of the worldrenownced Caerholme
event\" (341.18-19)-where the line seems mani- festly to bear on a horse race (\
"the world-reknowned Carholme Event\, but only because Joyce's \"nonday diary\"
is elaborately concerned with that variety of dark horse known as a \"sleeper.\"
Latently it indicates how fully the Wake, as a literary \"presentment\" renderi
ng from his own \"eyewitless) \" Pinneaan\ 7 1)))
foggus\" the \"Real Absence\" of a man lying \"dead to the world,\" is holding f
orth a sustained \"presentiment\" of the \"world-renounced event\" that will see
p into the skull at the wake, This means that Pinneaans Wake, because sleep does
, \"really\" takes place in some murky \"bed\" in a \"seemetery\" (17.36 [a \"se
eming\" \"cemetery,\" though a real koimeterion])-and in particular, \"amid the
semitary of Som- nionia\" (594.8 [L. somnus, \"sleep\"; somnium, \"dream\"]). Mo
re interestingly, \"if I may break the subject gently\" and again (165.30), the
subject \"trapped head\" at this Wake, \"becorpse\" he is mindlessly \"dead to t
he world\" (509.32), is largely only \"the presence (of a curpse)\" (224.4-5): \
"He's doorknobs dead!\" (378.1-2). The Wake in turn becomes an articulately grap
hic \"pre- sent (i) ment\"-aneerie \"engravure\" of sorts (13.7) -of the stilled
\"stream of unconsciousness\" (\"basin of unconsciousness\"?) that has seeped i
n \"among skullhullows and charnelcysts\" (613.20-21) interior to \"the presence
(of a curpse)\" who lies \"blurried\" (13. II [\"blurred,\" \"buried\"]) in som
e muddy \"bed\" in a \"seemetery,\" \"sinking\" (224.25 [not \"thinking\"]) of \
"a mouldy voids\" (37.9 [as opposed to a philosophical one]). Relief Map B shows
\"the Outrage, at Length\" (602.25). And as at the wake, so at the Wake: one tr
ies to \"throw any lime on the sopjack\" that one can (489.12). Read from this p
erspective, as its title plainly indicates, the Wake is really about a wake, and
it becomes easily one of the most amusingly scarifying \"ghoststories\" ever wr
itten (51. 13, 359.26). It operates less by evoking color- fully decked-out \"ap
paritions,\" who are always very much a part of this life, all their chatty disc
laimers notwithstanding, than by calling remorse- less attention to \"your ghost
\" (24.27), to the nothing \"yew\" become in the dead of night, \"when meet ther
e night. . . made their nought the hour strikes\" (67.3-5), and \"yew\" are not
only \"reduced to nothing\" (499.3), but, \"as a murder of corpse\" (254.32), la
id out \"dead to the world\" in a \"seeme- tery.\" As a \"NIGHTLETTER\" radiotel
egraphing complex \"youlldied greed- ings\" through void ether (308.16-17 [\"Yul
etide\" because sleep, like the In- carnation, takes place \"in the flesh\"]), t
he Wake everywhere reminds one that \"his fooneral will sneak pleace by creeps o
'clock toosday\" (617.20-21)- where the line, rather than giving us the time, gi
ves us the \"creeps,\" by sug- gesting how difficult internally to distinguish f
rom \"the long sleep\" is the shorter sleep that every \"tomb, dyke and hollow\"
in the book (597.6 [\"Tom, Dick and Harry\"]) will go through \"todie\" as \"da
ylight\" disintegrates into \"dielate\" on \"this daylit dielate night of nights
, by golly!\" (83.27). To put all this in the assaultive idiom of the ghost stor
y: \"Boo, you're through!\" (247.12). And to put it in a word that comparably en
capsulates the complex) 7 2) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
tonality of gravity and levity, of \"hilarity\" and \"tristesse\" (21. 12) that
char- acterizes Pinneaans Wake as a whole: \"Boohoohoo. . . !\" (379.13). The da
rk \"tome\" now modulates into a \"bog of the depths\" (SI6.2s)-a \"Book of the
Dead\" (13.30-31, 134.36, 309.3, 580.16, 621.3)-whose graven letters begin to op

erate much like those on a \"tomestone\" (253.34), marking the spot where a man
lies \"dead to the world\" and giving \"testimony on be- half of the absent. . .
to those present\" (173.29-31)-though now \"a tes- tament of the rocks from all
the dead unto some the living\" (73.32-33). \"If Standing Stones Could Speak\"
(306.22-23), they would say much ex- actly what \"the menhere's always talking a
bout\" in this elaborately ara- besqued \"book of kills\" (25.11- 12,482.33 [not
\"Kells\"; \"menhirs\" are \"stand- ing stones\"]): \"Here line the refrains of
\" (44.10), \"the remains of\" (13.10), \"the late cemented Mr T. M. Finnegan. R
.LC.\" (221.27 [R.I.P.]; 325.1); \"may ye root to piece!\" (545.36). Or, more el
aborately, in three sentences that minimally fill in the \"blank memory\" one ha
s of last night: \"Rest in peace! But to return. What a wonderful memory you hav
e too!\" (295.15-16). \"Wurming along gradually\" (84.30), it becomes evident th
at this \"book of kills\" had to be written \"in the vermicular\" (82.11-12 [L.
vermiculus, \"worm\"]) -as opposed to an identifiable \"vernacular\"-because its
\" be- lowes hero\" (343.17), \"the presence (of a curpse),\" lives not in a per
ceptible \"world,\" but in something much more like \"the wormd\" (354.22 [\"the
world\" overtaken by \"worm\"]). Every page written \"in [this] vermicular,\" a
ccord- ingly, each already strewn over with \"engraved\" letters and \"grave wor
d[s]\" (120.10, 243.30), becomes a kind of literate \"graphplot\" (284.7), holdi
ng forth a spookily articulate \"present (i) ment\" of the \"Real Absence\" inte
rior to \"a deadman\" (87.33, 121.36) who lies \"blurried\" in a \"graveplot.\"
Sys- tematically entangled with words like \"night,\" \"sleep,\" and \"bed,\" th
at is, and with particles operating in the Wake's \"nat language,\" its reader w
ill find on any of the book's \"graphplots\" \"allsods of\" terms (289.4-5) in t
his \"vermicular\"-like \"loamsome,\" \"dead,\" and \"sods\"-whose effect is eve
ry- where to net and capture the underlying unconsciousness of a body lying \"de
ad to the world\" in a \"seemetery.\" And \"amudst\" these \"graphplots\" (332.2
6), everywhere at the Wake, the reader will also find that in \"spec- tracular m
ephiticism there caoculates throuah the inconoscope. . . a still, the fiaure ofa
fellowchap in the wohly ahast\" (349.17-19), who \"amona nosoever circusdances
is to be apprehended\" (342.12). Since an \"inconoscope\" would look \"in\" at \
"icons\" (or \"images\,") the lines suggest that no\" apprehensibly\" visible \"
spectacle\" \"coagulates\" at the Wake, or at the wake, or in one's \"blank memo
ry\" of the night-no \"circuses,\" no \"dances,\" no \"circum-) \" Pinneaan\ 73)
stances,\" no colorfully parading members of \"the fellowship in the Holy Ghost,
\" \"nor no nothing\" (455.2). Instead, one maintains in the \"eyewitless foggus
\" \"recoil[ed]\" from \"lost life\" (515.26 [\"last night\"]) the \"spectacular
ly mephitic spectre\" of a representative man (\"fellowchap\,") lying \"still\"
in the dead of night, whose \"explots\" are vision-void and \"wholly ghastly\":
\"caocu- la tes \" evokes the Gaelic caoch (\"blind\,") while the English \"meph
itic,\" refer- ring to \"noxious or pestilential emanations from the earth,\" wo
uld summon up \"the ghouly ghost\" (57.6). \"You had just,\" in short, in browsi
ng \"amudst\" these \"graphplots,\" \"been cerberating a camp camp camp to Saint
Sepul- chre's march. . . fellowed along the rout by the stenchions of the corps
e\" (343.4-8). In his wakeful life, of course, the man \"trapped head\" at his W
ake fairly bustles with activity (\"Tramp, Tramp, Tramp\") in a world de- fined
by Church (\"stations of the cross\") and State (\"Tramp, Tramp, Tramp the Boys
are Marching\" is the tune to which the patriotic song \"God Save Ireland\" is s
et). But in the \"seemetery\" of night, by contrast, he just lies there, a \"man
made static\" (309.22), \"camp camp camp[ingJ\" in one spot, so to \"cerebrate\
" the sorrowful mysteries of \"the stenchions of the corpse\": \"Tarara boom dec
ay\" (247.28). The peculiar tense (\"you had been\") puts \"being\" in a past th
at is over and done with: \"Siar, I am deed\" (89.28). \"D.E.D.\" (420.30). \"Do
od dood dood!\" (499.6).7 As all these many articles lifted from his \"trapped h
ead\" imply, one thing is certain of the representative \"fellowchap\" shown str
atified in Relief Map B: \"he'll be the dea[th] of us\" (379.20; 369.29, 460.22)
; and as someone at the Wake puts it, \"I hope they threw away the mould\" (146.

12-13). Throughout the book, its reader will be \"recurrently meeting\" its hero
-\"Morbus 0' Somebody\" (88.14)-\"in cycloannalism, from space to space, time af
ter time, in various phrases of scripture as in various poses of sepulture\" (25
4.25- 28) as he drifts through the \"semitary of Somnionia\" in \"total calm\" i
n the \"duskguise[s]\" (532.27), for instance, of \"Totumcalmum\" (26.18 [\"Tuta
nkha- men\"]), \"the none known worrier\" (596.10-11 [\"the Unknown Warrior\"]),
\"Marty Manning\" (329.24 [\"mortal man\"]), \"and all the deed in the woe\" (I
I. 7 [\" all the dead in the world\"]). Since \"cycloannalism\" would differ fr
om \"psychoanalysis\" in exploring the profoundly unconscious state into which a
person \"tropped head\" will move not simply \"todie,\" but also after the \"cy
cle\" of \"years\" is up (L. annus, \"year\,") the term suggests that part of th
e Wake's extended \"undertaking\" will be an investigation of \"the mor- bidisat
ion of the modern mandaboutwoman type\" (151.5-6). And \"that's the point of esc
hatology our book of kills reaches for now in soandso many counterpoint words\"
(482.33-34).) 74) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
Life in the cemetery, judging from the vast literature on the subject, is not th
at empty. For instance, \"skim over Throuah Hell with the Papes (mostly boys) by
the divine comic Denti Alligator\" (440.5-6 [\"Dante Alighieri\" J)- where the
reference to the \"dental\" equipment of \"alligators\" more or less answers the
question \"Death, where are thy jaws?\" by referring us to the Inferno, the com
plaining members of whose men's club talkatively reveal that death has Big Ones.
Although Western culture, obsessed with \"spirits,\" has generated countless bo
oks and institutions elaborately explaining events presumed to follow the wake,
in \"underworld[s]\" (147.27), \"otherworld[s]\" (385.4), \"netherworld[s]\" (57
1.35), \"yonderworld[s]\" (593.23), \"wonder- wearlds\" (147.28), \"mansions of
the blest\" (426.26), \"heavens\" (170.9), and puritan \"Hell[s]\" (63.23), it h
as produced very few-the Wake among them-troubled enough to wonder about the sub
stantially \"Real Absence\" that informs the \"trapped head\" nightly, in \"real
life\" (260.F3). To this tell- ing oversight Joyce, throwing his ventriloqual v
oice into the dummy shown embedded in Relief Map B, sighs in exasperation, \"we
only wish everyone was as sure of anything in this. . . world as we are of every
thing in the. . . fellow that's bound to follow\" (452.29-31). That we collectiv
ely \"know\" a great deal more about life beyond the grave than we do about life
in the middle of life, in its night, no doubt attests to our culture's hysteria
about the prospect of the wake; but the oddly displaced \"knowledge\" attests a
s well to a collective hysteria about what it means to have to be alive at all.
Compensatorily, then, the Wake moves our attention into the cemetery only to pul
l it back into the middle of life, into the obscure \"seemetery\" of sleep, so t
o deepen the \"mountainy molehill\" it found there by addressing the \"clearobsc
ure\" question \"why is limbo where is he\"? (256.23). Where do people get all t
heir ideas of \"other worlds,\" and what enables them to describe \"the Herewear
eagain Gaieties of the Afterpiece\" (455.24) so elaborately? Any number of items
elicited from the \"tropped head\" of the man lying embedded at the Wake will b
egin opening answers to this question. For \"one bed night he had the delysiums
that they were all queens mobbing him. Fell stiff\" (379.17-18): if these terms
suggest on the one hand the dreamy \"delu- sions\" sent into the \"night\" by \"
Queen Mab\" (in Br. folklore, the maker of dreams)-and \"full stop\"-they also e
voke the \"Elysium\" into which some- one \"dead to the world\" has passed by \"
falling stiff\" and entering a \"seeme- tery.\" In places like these, the Wake s
uggests-as others have elaborately ar- gued-that some unconscious reflection on
the human experience of the night seems intricately entangled in even the most c
omplex beliefs about \"eternal sleep\" and the existence to which it leads-becau
se, however short) \"Pinneaan\ 75)))
an\" ephumeral\" it may be, sleep brings the world to its end: \"Jehosophat, wha
t doom is here!\" (255.12 [\"Jehoshaphat,\" ofJoel3: 12, is another site ofthe e
nd of the worldJ). 8 In the Wake's \"present (i) ment\" of the \"Real Absence\"

inte- rior to a man \"trapped head,\" then-\"no thing making newthing wealth- sh
owever\" (253.8-9) -\"the death he has lived through becomes the life he is to d
ie into\" (293.3-5); and out of the mundane experience endured in the \"seemeter
y\" of \"everynight life\" (17.33, 36), the Wake discovers, in all kinds of plac
es, projections forward through the cemetery into a presumed \"nexis- tence\" (3
66.2)-a \"next existence,\" met in \"inexistence,\" after \"death\" (L. nex). Be
cause he is asleep, the man \"trapped head\" at the Wake is already in an \"othe
r world\" (9I.2s)-one radically alien to and cryptically occulted from the world
accessible to the light of \"day's reasons\" (347.24)-but an \"other world\" fr
om whose experience people seem to have derived ideas of what other \"other worl
ds\" might be like. 9 Passage through a night in the \"seemetery\" moreover palp
ably embeds in human experience a sense of what it is to fall down \"dead to the
world\" and to undergo a spectral transit through a dark \"noughttime\" at whos
e sunstruck latter end, after encoun- tering shades and shadows and sometimes ha
rrowing hell, one hurls back an immobilizing rock and undergoes a resurrection o
f the body into the sun's day, at the pearly gates of dawn, under an eastering b
lade of matitudinal light: \"Array! Surrection!\" (593.2-3 [the \"insurrectionar
y\" note is of the \"Easter Rising\"]). The genuine mystery lying at the heart o
f all resurrection and solar myths emerges in miniature, but with undiminished s
trangeness, in any thinking about the \"solarsystemised\" process of sleep (263.
24), which draws everybody in the world \"seriolcosmically\" (263.24-25) through
periodic cycles of non being and being, snuffing out and resurrecting lives lik
e \"Fin- negan's\" according to the design of \"an archetypt\" immanent in \"one
. . , original sun\" (263.27 [an \"archetype\" manifest in the \"sun,\" in turn
mani- festing an \"architect\" of \"original sin\"J). This \"solarsystematized\"
arrange- ment builds into the architecture of the world \"a sot of a swigswag,
systomy dystomy, which everabody you ever anywhere at all doze. Why? Such me\" (
597.21-22): the \"doze\" here calls attention to the periodic alternation of \"d
oing and dozing\" in a world rocked under \"one original sun,\" just as the \"sw
igswag\" ofthat tipsy \"sot\" calls attention to the alternation of \"blacking o
ut\" and enlightened \"sorting-out\" in \"everabody\" given to \"feeling aslip a
nd wauking up\" (S97.12)-andjust as the \"systole\" and \"diastole\" in \"sys- t
omy dystomy\" call attention to the flood and ebb of blood in the heart. Why the
se periods suffuse \"everabody\" is a fathomless question (\"Search) 76) JOYCE'S
me!\,") but a question nonetheless implanted in \"everybody's\" \"body\" (\"Such
is me\.") It raises the \"cyclological\" question (220.30-31) of why anyone involuntarily made to \"drop down dead\" (323.19) in the \"seemetery\" of the nig
ht should wake up at all, rather than \"camp camp camp[ing]\" off into eterni ty
cultivating an extremely long \"blank memory.\" As it occurs uncon- sciously to
the man lying \"dead to the world\" at the Wake, \"I'd like myselfto be continu
ed\" (452.10- II). The Wake in turn, now construing itself as \"Tobe- continued'
s tale\" (626.18), discovers inits to-be-continuedhero's \"ephumeral\" disappear
ance in the \"seemetery\" of night a protoversion of other stories bearing on th
e \"resurrection of the body\" into the light of new life. to \"The descent to t
he underworld is what happens to every human being when he goes to sleep. The qu
estion what is life turns out to be the question what is sleep.\" II At the Wake
now, as at the wake, \"postmartem is the goods\" (455. I I - 12) , and \"the co
ffin\" becomes \"a triumph of the illusionist's art\" (66.27). And in turn, a st
ory already \"terribly difficult\" to \"tell\" because of its emplace- ment in a
body \"laid to rust\" in a \"seemetery\" becomes even slightly more \"Tellibly
Divilcult\" (303.FI )-the undertones here hinting at \"devil cults\" because \"T
obecontinued's tale\" opens fantasmal perspectives on unending \"nekropolitan ni
ghts\" (80.1-2). Out of the \"graphplots\" aligned in the Wake's \"seemetery,\"
accordingly, a \"night of the Apophanypes\" unfolds (626.4-5), a \"hallowe'en ni
ght\" (49.24), which affords us, as a literary \"present (i) ment\" of what \"th
e presence (of a curpse)\" must \"sink\" (628.10 [not \"think\"]), as it passes
from one world to the next, an \"epiphany\" ofthe \"Apocalypse\" (hence \"Apopha

nypes\-so") to raise a great deal of hell and pull a little heaven to earth in o
rder to bring both to light. For in this \"book ofthe depth\" (621.3), where \"e
very hollow holds a hallow\" (25.13-14), \"its never dawn in the dark but the de
ed comes to life\" (328.27-28).12 The Wake now becomes something of a \"fulldres
s Toussaint's Wakeswalks Experdition\" (455.5-6), holding out a \"spictre\" (299
.5) of \"new worlds for all!\" and all \"scotographically arranged\" (412.2-3).
While the reference to \"Madame Tussaud's Waxworks Exhibition\" reminds us that
the man lying \"dead to the world\" in this \"seemetery\" has all the headwork o
f a waxwork dummy, it also suggests that he passes, while enduring a \"wake\" -l
ike \"perdi- tion,\" into the dark of an \"All Hallows' Eve\" (Fr. La Toussaint)
at whose res- urrective latter end lies a \"Lets All Wake Brickfaced\" (359.2728 [for \"break- fast,\" no matter how rigorously \"brick-faced\"]). \"So for e'
er fare thee welt!,\" as a priest atthe Wake puts it, \"Parting's fun\"! (454.12 [Ger. Welt, \"world\"]). \"Nearvanashed\" (61.18 [\"Nirvana\"]), the man \"tro
pped head\" at this Wake) \"Pinneaan\ 77)))
has passed through \"the Gate of Hal\" (535.5 [\"hell\"]) and dwells \"hells whe
re\" (228.6), \"in those wherebus\" (239.30 [\"Erebus\"J) of \"Veiled Horror\" (
156.32-33 [\"Valhalla\"J), \"Hall Hollow\" (565.2), or \"Had Days\" (229.13 [\"H
ades\"J): the homey appearance of our friend \"Hal\" in that \"gate of hell, \"
however, tells us that his passage into an \"other world\" has happened not in m
ythic or geographic space, but interior to a body that \"Had Days\" when it was
awake but now, \"nearly vanished\" in the \"seemetery\" of night, does not, havi
ng entered an \"other world\" webbed of \"veiled horrors\" and \"hollows\" and l
ocated \"elsewhere\" from the one open to \"day's reason.\" Or again, having com
e to the end of his day on earth, our \"su pernoctural\" hero (598. 17 [\"supernatural\" because \"nocturnal\"J) finds himself translated into a \"dimdom done
\" (594.6) blissfully void of conflict largely because he \"sleeps in peace, in
peace,\" in \"peace peace perfectpeace!\" (583.10, 364.20; 549.12).13 As these e
xamples suggest, the Wake's extensive \"graphplots\" are \"erebusqued\" (38.3-4)
with all the underworlds and otherworlds in the world (\"ere- busqued\" combine
s \"arabesqued\" and \"Erebus\.") ultimately to make the book something of a \"m
ultilingual tombstone\" (392.24-25); but these \"yon- derworld[sJ\" emerge here
not because Joyce's \"knock[edJ out\" hero, gifted largely with the capacity to
\"no,\" \"knows\" Old Norse or Greek, for in- stance-let alone the \"wherebus\"
of his head and toes (239.30)-but be- cause a version of them all becomes immane
nt in sleep's \"ephumeral,\" and in the nullity bubbled up in the \"trapped head
\" passed into the \"seemetery\" of the night. One way of putting into perspecti
ve what now threatens to be a survey of world eschatology, and of showing how th
e Wake might well be read as a li terary \"present (i) ment\" of the darkly colo
rful nulli ty interior to \"the pres- ence (of a curpse),\" would be to \"rearri
ve,\" \"by a commodius vicus of re- circulation,\" at the opening pages of the b
ook, once again to \"take our review of the two mounds\" (12.19-20 [of \"humptyh
illhead\" and \"tump- tytumtoes\"J). This \"review of the two mounds,\" of cours
e, will differ con- siderably from anything like La revue des deux mondes; for i
f in wakeful life the man lying \"dead to the world\" at his Wake \"lives\" in \
"Ie monde\" (Fr., \"the world\,") at his \"ephumeral\" in the \"seemetery,\" by
contrast, he merely \"leaves\" (353.10 [not \"lives\"J), and in something much m
ore like Ie \"mound\" (17.29, 18.3)-interior to which, as a glance at the \"reli
efmap\" will suggest, Ie monde has disintegrated severely. 14 If the disturbingl
y earthy \"humptyhill- head\" \"laid to rust\" in that muddily obscure \"bed\" o
n the opening page of the Wake cannot find its toes or distinguish \"sopj ack\"
from \"a bj ects,\" it is \"be- corpse\" (509.32), from this perspective, it has
disintegrated into a sodden) 78) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
parity with a terrain that muddily seeps back in, all boundaries separating it f
rom the global totality of its native earth having melted. In a turn of \"the ve
rmicular\" that puts a new slant on the name, Ie \"mound\" is all that \"Headmou

nd,\" \"our mounding's mass,\" holds in his \"tropped head\" and can \"no\" (he
is also given the \"abusive name\" \"Dirt\" more than once at his Wake [71.5, 7
2 . 1 3]). These ciphers, then, show him endearingly \"being humus\" (18.5), as
he lies in a \"seemetery,\" teeming with a \"blank memory\" the size of which on
ly a Wakean \"tomestone\" could ever articulate, accoutred in \"his Eddems and C
lay's hat\" (278.F7), amid \"clayed sheets\" (546. I), \"his clay feet, swarded
in verdigrass\" (7.30 [\"verdigris\" accumulates on human- oid figures that do n
ot move]), participating in a \"castomerdes mudwake surveice\" (349.25 [not a \"
customary midweek service,\" but a \"survey\" of \"mud\" by the person \"cast to
mercy\" at his \"wake\"]). Underlying everything in Joyce's \"bog of the depths
,\" one finds some such \"spictre\" as this, revealing \"Morbus 0' Somebody\"-Fi
nnegan-drifting through loam at the speed of dark in a \"bed\" in an obscure \"s
eemetery.\" Essentially these figures evoke the unconsciousness of sleep; but be
cause they do so, they inevitably hold forth a \"present (i) ment\" of the \"exp
lots\" befalling \"the presence (of a curpse)\" when it passes through the \"see
metery\" and into another world-here an earthy \"underworld\" in which, \"being
humus, the same roturns\" (18.5) \"by a commodius vicus of re- circulation\" to
its \"hume sweet hume\" (80.18; 261.5, 481.21, 606.16), where it awaits a future
\"resurrection ofthe body\" and \"very merry Incarnations in this land of the l
ivvey\" (308.19-20). These nuances in the \"vermicular\" now oblige us to see fu
rther that the Wake, because sleep does, takes place \"all underground\" (113.32
, passim), and not metaphorically. Since the perceptions withdraw from the world
outside the body in sleep, to fall \"back in the flesh\" (67.5-6), sleep leaves
one \"buried\" (131.15, passim), but \"buried\" within an animate sort ofloam\"red loam\" (469.3 [Heb. Adam] )-and all the more deeply because \"humus\" and
the \"human\" (\"earthling\") are etymologically entangled in each other (NS, 12
). We might, then, think of the figure shown \"outlined aslumbered\" in the \"re
lief map\" as \"Tommy Terracotta\" (481.32), or more simply, as \"Terry Cotter\"
(71.22) since he just lies there \"being humus,\" brain-void and immobile as an
earthenware or \"terra cotta\" figurine-though implicitly in- formed with the h
uman. IS Now in the night, \"every morphyl man of us . . . falls back into this
terrine\" (80.22-23 [\"tureens\" are made of \"terra cotta \"]), \"where indeeth
we shall calm decline, our legacy unknown\" (79.17). \"Mor- phyl\" here suggest
s \"mortal,\" of course, because our hero is \"dead to the world\" and at a loss
to know where \"they drugged the buddhy\" (602.26-27) \"Pinneaan\ 79)))
[the \"drugs\" \"knock out\"; the \"Buddha\" in the \"body\" shows it \"nearvanashed\"]); but it also plays off the Gr. morphe (\"shape\,") out of which arise
s Morpheus, in Greek myth the son of Sleep and \"shape-shifting\" maker of dream
s. If the line suggests on the one hand that in sleep \"We vivvy soddy. All be d
ood\" (264.FI [\"very sorry,\" \"all is dead\" and buried in \"sod\"]), it also
suggests that the \"terrain\" in which everything is \"blurried\" is the dreamstirred, \"vivid sad\" of the living body. It is in the animate underground of t
his sort of red loam that the Wake, because sleep does, takes place. \"The sale
[and 'soul'] of the settlement, below ground\" (392.21), the man \"trapped head\
" and \"buried\" at this Wake now becomes a \"belowes hero\" (343.17) in another
sense: \"a locally person of caves\" (365.2), lying every- where encrypted bene
ath \"the manyoumeant,\" his life in the night takes place in an \"underground h
eaven, or mole's paradise\" (76.33, d. 483.27)- or, more elaborately, in a \"ram
bling undergroands\" (481.15 [where the \"ram- bling groans\" in this \"rumbling
underground\" will lead to the production of dreams]). \"Dead to the world\" as
he may be, \"he continues highlyfictional, tumulous under his chthonic exterior
\" (261.17- 18) -where the signs of \"tu- multuous\" \"chthonic\" activity in th
e \"tumulus\" (or \"tomb\") suggest that underworldly \"spirits\" haunt \"our mo
unding's mass\" as much as they haunt Finnegan, and as much as they haunt any \"
mound or barrow\" (479.23-24). \"Hollow,\" yet \"all-hallowed,\" the \"darkumoun
d\" (386.20-21) of which the Wake, as literary \"document,\" is a \"present (i)m
ent,\" now becomes an \"ollollowed ill\" (\"hill\") riffed and stirred with \"sp
irits\" (7.33-34 [the \"ills\" keep us \"in bed\"]). By another turn of \"the ve

rmicular,\" then, we might think of Ie \"mound\" shown in Relief Map B as \"Spoo

ksbury\" (442.7), or \"Saulsbury\" (541.29), or \"Haunted Hillborough\" (340.34)
, or, less trans- parently, as \"Finsbury\" (374.28), \"Danesbury\" (372.17), or
\"Edenberry\" (66.17- 18) -where the \"burryripe\" \"burryberr[y]\" in the last
of these names (291. II, 376.28) would indicate that the man \"tropped head\" t
here is \"all reddy berried\" and \"dead to the world\" (421.6 [\"already buried
\"]), but only in a vegetative state like sleep (hence the frequent spelling of
\"bury\" as \"berry\" in Pinneaans Wake) .16 As a totality, these ciphers show t
he man \"tropped head\" at the Wake-\"sir ghostus\" (532.4) -\"ghosting himself\
" (501.32) as he lies \"interred in the landscape\" shown in the \"relief map\"
(L, I, 254). At the same time, however, they also map out a richly extended \"ne
therworld\" (571.35) teeming with chthonic agencies that seek to erupt out of Ie
\"mound\" and return into Ie monde, to wreak havoc with the world of the living
and the day. Archetypal depth psychologies locate chthonic powers such as these
in immaterial \"depths,\" in the \"underworld\" of an Un-) 80) JOYCE'S BOOK OF
conscious that lies not merely below ground, but \"below the earth and be- yond
it,\" always and everywhere underlying the visible surface of thingsY But in the
nocturnal underworld treated at the Wake-an \"underworld of nighties and naught
ies and all the other wonderwearlds\" (147.28)-we should expect, as the terms im
ply, a great deal of this chthonic mayhem to erupt somewhere in the occulted reg
ion of our hero's \"underwhere\" (365. I 1- 12 [\"underwear\"]), it, too, always
and everywhere underlying the visible surface of the daily world (hence the \"n
ighties\" and the \"underwear\" evi- dent in those \"wonderwearlds\.") \"See rel
ief map\" (564. IO and context) .18 One way of putting some of these new propert
ies of the \"mound\" into a context, and of showing how subterranean forces stir
inside it, would entail moving forward into a row of Wakean \"graphplots\" that
show the man \"dead to the world\" in a \"seemetery\"-now construed as \"Donawh
u\" (76.32 [\"Don't know who\"])-leading a \"plotty existence\" (76.18) in \"a p
rotem grave\" (76.21) localized as usual \"in the bed\" (76.:31). These terms su
ggest that though \"his body still persist[s]\" (76.20), it has not moved a grea
t deal since he \"trapped head\" at the start of the Wake, having lain there sta
tically \"the whole of the while (hypnos chilia eonion!) lethelulled\" (78.3-4),
in a state \"rich in death anticipated\" (78.6). We read, however, of some \"un
der- ground\" force that seeks, while \"knowing the hingeworms of the hallmirks
of habitationlesness, buried burrowing in Gehinnon, to proliferate through all h
is Unterwealth, seam by seam, sheol am shea!, and revisit our Upper- crust Sider
ia of Uti litari as . . .\" (78.8-II). Most of this language evokes the \"eyewit
less foggus\" of somebody who is \"dead to the world\": the deceased as describe
d in the Egyptian Book of the Dead were supposed to pass through and \"know the
hingemarks of the murky hallmarks\" in a \"habitationless\" underworld in order
to rise from the grave into new life; 19 and the references to the Biblical grav
eyard of \"Gehenna\" (Jer. 19: 6), to \"sheaI\" (Heb. \"the grave\,") and to \"s
eams\" of earth and \"iron-mines\" (Gr. sidereia) embed us deeply in the \"Under
world\" (Ger. Unterwelt) of a \"seemetery.\" As that fur- tive \"burrowing\" sug
gests, however, a dark vitality is alive in Ie \"mound,\" prodding \"the presenc
e (of a curpse)\" to seek the \"upper crust\" of earth and return to the \"utili
tarian\" world of \"side rial day.\" \"How hominous his house, haunt it? Yesses
indead it be!\" (560.17-18 [\"Yesses\" = \"Jesus!,\" a riser]). But because \"up
per crust\" is also slang for \"the head,\" we might see this \"bur- rowing\" ag
ency striving simply to lift the \"tropped head\" upward out of the \"seemetery\
" of sleep into perceptual vitality. Purposive and urgent enough to transform a
\"Gehenna\" into a \"Gehinnon\" (Ger. aeh hinnen, \"Get out of here!\,") this \"
burrowing\" progresses in a di-) \"Pinneaan\ 81)))
rection whose end is made clear by countless other passages that find the man ly
ing \"dead to the world\" in the Wake's \"seemetery\" \"wurming along gradually\

" (84.30) through the \"burrows\" and \"barrows\" of \"Soulsbury\"; for this \"b
urrowing\" primarily moves with \"burning\" determination, \"tobor- row and tobu
rrow and tobarrow\" (455.12-13), \"to burrow burning\" (602.17- 18 [toward \"tom
orrow and tomorrow\" and \"tomorrow morning\"]): \"Will it ever be next morning\
"? (66. IO). The ciphers tell us that \"deeds bounds going arise again\" (55.5 [
\"These bones gwine to rise again!\"]), \"in the quicktime\" (560.9 [morning]);
but since we are sharing the \"eyewitless foggus\" of some- one embedded in a \"
seemetery,\" they also suggest that as far as \"the presence (of a curpse)\" can
\"no,\" \"these bones\" might be preparing to rise again \"in the quicklime,\"
as they murkily gather themselves together and move from \"Yet stir thee, to cla
y, Tamar!\" (255.4 [in the secret Irish tongue of Boa Latin, tamor means \"earth
,\" but the whole \"vermicular\" construction moves us through \"yesterday, toda
y, tomorrow\"]). In the\" noughttime,\" from this per- spective, \"one world [is
] burrowing on another\" (275.5-6); for the \"spirits\" of anyone who has come t
o the end of his day on earth and \"tropped head,\" disintegrating with an Old W
orld (of yesterday and the past in all conceiv- a ble senses) only seek, after a
n annihilative gap of time in the\" seemetery,\" \"toborrow and toburrow and tob
arrow\" toward a resurrection of the body in a New World (oftomorrow and the fut
ure in all conceivable senses). In \"To- becontinued's tale,\" then, as in other
s involving the resurrection of the body, the \"spirits\" are intent on returnin
g to earth to gratify dark appetites and yearnings that arise in the \"wonderwea
rld\"-as, for instance, the appetite for \"breakfarts\" (453.12) or \"Breakfates
\" (131.4).20 As these brief readings \"in the vermiqIlar\" will suggest, the Wa
ke goes about its \"present(i)ment\" of life in the \"seemetery\" so colorfully
as to make a reading of \"Finnegan's\" \"explots\" at his \"ephumeral\" unending
. Every \"graphplot\" in the Wake's \"epistola of . . . buryings\" (117.28) open
s onto \"fresh horrors from Hades\" (183.35), when not \"striking up funny fu- n
ereels\" (414.35), because a \"present (i) ment\" of essential unconscious- ness
-\"Real Absence\"-was crucial to Joyce's reconstruction of the night. There are
\"coughings all over the sanctuary\" at the Wake (26.26) -though the \"coughing\
" distinctly heard in that \"coffin\" tells us that the man \"trapped head\" wit
hin it is not really \"dead to the world\" at all, but merely \"dead to the worl
d.\" As the nagging persistence of that indistinction between the twin unconscio
usnesses of sleep and death suggests, these are not finally, either for Joyce or
his reader, merely gamey issues, but visceral ones. By pulling one's attention
into the \"seemetery\" of night, the Wake obliges its) 82) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE D
reader everywhere to discriminate between \"the sleep and the ghoasts\" (SSI.2-3
)-between the \"Real Absence[s]\" of \"sleep\" and of \"ghosts,\" as be- tween \
"the sheep and the goats,\" and as if at \"the end of the world\" (hence again t
hose \"sheep and the goats\.") Inevitably, it leaves its reader wonder- ing what
internally differentiates sleep and death. Inevitably, too, it leaves him medit
ating on what it must be to be the star of the show at a wake. The only predicta
ble certainty about any human life is that it will culmi- nate in an event at wh
ich, but for one, there will be some \"fun for all.\" Everybody knows it, and ev
erybody has a shadowy account of what it will mean to be \"propelled from Behind
into the great Beyond\" (49.25) as the last in a steady sequence of rude kicks
delivered from the rear assails one unex- pectedly on that \"one fine! howdiedow
[when] Bouncer Naster raps on the bell with a bone\" (455.13-14). Well may this
\"Pater Noster\" resolve into a \"Nasty\" barroom \"Bouncer\" then, as he exten
ds this \"fine howdy-do\" on that \"fine final day\" that will signal the end of
the world and time (\"on the bell\.") The further out of consciousness one keep
s one's own shady account of the wake, the more bearable life in its middle may
be; yet its presence in the background, as both \"The Dead\" and the \"Hades\" e
pisode of Ulysses sug- gest, everywhere exerts a force on the foreground and so
determines the way life is lived in its middle-and all the more powerfully as de
ath, already one of the \"catastrophic cataclysms which make terror the basis of
human men- tality\" (U, 697), is susceptible to profound moralization and insti

tution- alization under the \"awethorrorty\" (516.19) of \"Bouncer Naster.\" The

Wake, like the wake, brings this \"spectracular\" event to the fore, to explore
its power on the living. In The New Science, Vico establishes an etymological e
quivalence be- tween \"humanity\" and humando (L. \"burying\,") anthropologicall
y rein- forcing the identity by calling attention to the strangeness of that mom
ent in prehistory in which an aspect of human consciousness flickered up out of
animality as our forebears stopped leaving the corpses of their parents to rot,
the prey of scavenging beasts, and instituted, in the custom of burial, \"a grea
t principle of humanity\" (NS, 12, 337, 529). His observations suggest that cons
ciousness of death and consciousness as a totality cannot be disen- tangled: one
is the condition of the other. In another form, the same story is told in Genes
is, concerning \"Der Pall Adams\" (70.5 [Ger. \"the case of Adam\"]), who underw
ent, through the paradoxically \"fortunate fall\"- \"the great fall\" (3.18) -an
uplifting ascent into knowledge of good and evil and an immediate fall into kno
wledge of death. Both Vico and Genesis make an aspect of death as much a human c
reation as a fact of nature. \"Hu-) \" Pinnegan\ 83)))
man beings appear to be unique among the fauna inhabiting the 'biosphere' that c
oats the planet in being aware that they themselves and all their con- temporari
es are going to die, and that death has overtaken countless genera- tions\";21 \
"animals are unaware of death because death is a symbolic form\" (cf. U, 46, 101
).22 The story one has in a mind potentiated by death of what its death will ent
ail, then, wields the power of any symbol in having the capacity to shrivel or m
agnify life where it is always and only known, in its middle-as Joyce, educated
into a Catholicism that rendered life in its middle subservient to the demands o
f a moralized afterlife, would well have known (P, III). \"Numerous are those wh
o, nay, there are a dozen of folks still unclaimed by the death angel in this co
untry of ours today, humble indivisibles in this grand continuum. . . who, while
there are hours and days, will fervently pray to the spirit above that they may
never depart this earth of theirs\" (472.28-33). Yet in the \"semitary of Somni
onia,\" \"dead to the world\" as Finnegan, each of these dozens is as unconsciou
s as he will ever have occa- sion to know: \"if he was to parish. . . before the
dorming of the mawn\"- before \"the dawning of the morn,\" while \"dorming\" un
der the \"moon\"-\"he skuld never ask to see sight or light of this world or the
other world or any either world\" either (91.23-25). Like Bloom during his gent
le descent into \"Hades,\" not least, the Wake suggests that something so natura
l, inevitable, and commonplace need not inevitably fill us with horror and fear,
aspects of which, as states of mind and not facts of nature, are evolved out of
rela- tions with a punitive \"Bouncer Naster.\" It goes about scattering this f
ear, moreover, through the exercise of great good humor and restless curiosity,
so to demonstrate by the casting of light words over dark subjects, a conver- si
on of gravity into levity, and the raising of spirits of all kinds, that the humor, pleasure, and curiosity expended during a limited \"lease on mirth\" (329.
19 [\"leases\" expire, too]) is one best and ample means to a meeting of \"peace
on earth\" and its end. If being \"dead to the world,\" \"of corpse\" (254.32),
were all that \"every- night life\" entailed-\" (Oh hell, here comes our funera
l. . .) \" (190.2-3)- nobody would ever go to sleep at all and everybody would d
ie of protracted insomnia. Yet as we experience it, \"in our own nighttime,\" sl
eep is pleas- antly revitalizing and invigorating, culminating as it does in \"A
rray! Surrec- tion!\" (593.2-3 [and a sundazzled \"resurrection\" of the body]).
\"Finnegan's\" spooky experience, therefore, is only the bottommost layer in a
book whose \"every word will be bound over to carry threescore and ten toptypsic
al readings\" (20.14- 15); as it occurs to the man \"trapped head\" at his Wake
a moment in which he murkily rises out of \"the living detch\" to \"shake off th
e dust and dream\" (8.22, 280.35), \"that's enough. . . of finicking about Finne
gan and fiddling with his faddles\" (531.27-29). Although there is, as these lin

es imply, a great deal more to Pinneaans Wake than an extended reconstruction of

\"Real Absence\" and the interior of the \"trapped head\"- not least an explora
tion of a night's warm dreams-\"nefersenless\" (415.33 [and \"nevertheless\"]) \
"this is not the end of this by no manner means\" (373.35-36). For death, as the
reference to the ancient Egyptian city of \"Nefer-sent\" implies, has a long, d
ark history, and the grave has historicized depths that lead downward into \"the
deep deep deeps of Deepereras. Buried hearts. Rest [tJhere\" (595.28-29). Furth
er study of Finnegan's \"explots\" in the \"seemetery\" therefore obliges us to
\"wurm along\" a little more deeply \"in dead men's hills\" (352.31-:32), by dra
wing illustratively on the \"new science\" of Egyptology and moving into \"Aeshi
ps\" (625.4 [or \"Egypt\"]). There, among \"tomb people\" (hence the Gael. Aos-s
idhe in \"Aeships\,") somewhere \"in Amongded\" (418.6 [\"among dead\" in \"Amen
tet,\" an Egyptian realm of the dead]), \"we shall do a far walk (0 pity) anygo
khaibits\" (570.28-29) as we contemplate, with \"Ba's berial,\" the invention of
the cemetery, the construction of a formalized afterlife, and the history of We
stern death (415.31 [\"Amentet\" was home of the Egyptian khaibit, or \"shadow,\
" and ba, or \"soul\"J). And there, too, as we \"thothfully\" consider \"the sil
ence of the dead, from pharoph the nextfirst down to ramescheckles the last bust
thing\" (415.28,450.20-21 [with \"Thoth\" and \"Ramses\"]), we shall find sleep
everywhere intimately linked by a form of dark and \"secret hook-up\" with \"Se
cret Hookup\" itself (360.16 [as with \"Sekhet Hetep,\" the Egyptians' otherworl
dly \"fields ofpeace\"J).) \"Pinneaan\ 85)))
CHAPTER) F 0 U R) Inside the Coffin: Finnegans Wake and the Eayptian Book of the
Dead) PHARAOPH TIMES) Mortuary literatures and funerary texts, as at all wakes,
assume an enor- mous importance at Joyce's Wake. Sensibly, Joyce seems to find
in them not only previsionary accounts oflife beyond the grave, but also elabora
te medi- tations on the experience of sleep. Since a thorough study of the use t
o which Joyce put myths of afterlives and other worlds in Pinneaans Wake would i
n itself make a book, this chapter will undertake a reading of one particular mo
rtuary text-the Egyptian Book of the Dead-that the Wake draws upon heavily in it
s portrayal of its hero's existence in the \"semitary of Somnionia\" (594.8). A
treatment of the Book of the Dead, in turn, will sug- gest how the Wake bends ot
her mythographies of postmortality into its re- construction of the human dark.
It is impossible to overlook the vital presence of the Book of the Dead in Pinne
aans Wake, which refers to ancient Egypt in countless tags and allu- sions. When
Joyce refers to his protagonist as a man not of\" the hidden life,\" but of \"t
he Hidden Life\" (499.15), for instance, he is translating one of the names of t
he Egyptian underworld-Amenti (\"the Hidden Land\- and the name of one of its pr
ominent deities-Amen-Ra (\"Ra, the Hidden One\.1") When he comments-in the phras
e \"To it, to it! Seekit head up!\ 86)))
(4S4.3S-36)-on the celestial aspiration that causes people to look upward toward
heaven (\"seek it head-up\,") he is comparably alluding not only to \"Sekhet He
tep\" (d. 415.34-35), but to the \"Tuat,\" another name for the Egyptian afterwo
rld. And when he describes the \"Toussaints' wakewalks ex- perdition\" as a \"ch
amber ofhorrus\" (455.5-6), he is alluding particularly to the mortuary locale o
f the \"Chamber of Horus.\" There are several good reasons for approaching Pinne
aans Wake, and its treatment of the wake, through a reading of the Book of the D
ead. Joyce ac- tively sought to have somebody write an essay exploring the Wake'
s af- finities with this text: as he explained in a letter to Harriet Shaw Weave
r, one of the\" 4 long essays\" in that testamentary collection which he planned
to have follow Our Exaamination was to examine specifically the Wake's re- cons
truction of the night by reference to the Book of the Dead (L, I, 281; JJ, 61314). Undiscouraged by his failure to recruit anyone to compile this un- written
work, he became more direct and advised Frank Budgen to compose an article on Pi
nneaans Wake entitled \"James Joyce's Book of the Dead.\" 2 Budgen seems dutiful
ly to have done this in an essay published as \"Joyce's Chapters of Going Forth

By Day,\" which, apart from its title and a casual reference, has much of value
to say about the Wake but little to do with the Book of the Dead. 3 In the cours
e of four decades, nonetheless, readers of the Wake motivated by this kind of he
avy hinting have for the most part fulfilled Joyce's wishes by showing us how in
tricately the Wake alludes to the Book of the Dead. 4 Still, even the most learn
ed of these readers have seemed uncer- tain at times of the exact portion and si
gnificance of their labors. While a consideration of \"Finnegan's Wake\" will ha
ve suggested the broad reasons for which Joyce would in part have modeled the Wa
ke-his own book of the dead-on its Egyptian prototype, only a close examination
of the Book of the Dead itself will provide more detailed answers to larger ques
tions that any reader is likely to have about much that he meets in the Wake: Wh
at does the Wake have to do with a wake? What does either have to do with an \"i
mitation of the dream-state\"? And, above all, what does a reconstruction of the
night have to do with such archaic and arcane cultural oddments as the Book of
the Dead, which one finds everywhere in the Wake? Since Joyce clearly regarded t
he Book of the Dead as one of his conceptual models, some sense of its structure
must precede an account of its exact role in Pinne- Bans Wake. In its own elusi
ve form of symbolic language the Book of the Dead af- fords us probably the olde
st, most impassioned, and most fiercely sustained glimpse into events occurring
at and beyond the moment of the wake that) Inside the Coffin) 87)))
people of this world have ever enacted. More perhaps than any other cul- ture, a
ncient Egypt has impressed upon us a paradoxical truth about the way in which ou
r consciousness depends upon the passage into uncon- sciousness of past generati
ons of men at their wakes: we know what kind of life these people enjoyed before
death largely because they were so heav- ily preoccupied with life after death;
\"most of the surviving products of past generations are parts of the equipment
with which they furnished the dead.\"s As the archaeological testimony of its t
ombs and pyramids alone suggests (62.20-21,261.9, 553.10), dynastic Egypt was am
ong the most nec- rocentric culture that this planet has known. The literature t
hat survives from dynastic Egypt consists almost entirely of texts that were eng
raved into the walls of tombs, carved all over the insides and outsides of coffi
ns, or laid beside the corpse on papyri. Even those odd documents that describe
the mundane work and play of the ancient Egyptians come to us primarily out of t
ombs; and they tell us that even in those most convivially abandoned of times in
which the wealthy hosted dances and parties, the specter of the tomb loomed lar
ge in the imaginations of the celebrants. It was a custom at Egyptian parties fo
r someone to sing a dirge reminding all those present that the day of their own
deaths was approaching; \"in some cases, to drive this lesson home into the mind
s of the company, the host had a mummy on a sledge drawn through the dining hall
.\"6 As this illustration suggests, the an- cient Egyptians seem to have thought
about their mortality with more per- sistence and intensity than any other peop
le who have lived. Indeed, as a reading of the Book of the Dead will attest, the
y seem to have begun prepar- ing for their deaths as soon as they began to think
. There is, in fact, no such single work as the Book of the Dead: the title conv
entionally given to this odd cultural document is at best a makeshift name, adop
ted by scholarly convention, which comes to us by one of the most unprincipled e
tymological histories on record. Egyptologists adopted this title through their
barterings with graverobbers, who, over the course of centuries, had come to ref
er to any piece of writing lifted from the desert tombs as a \"deadman's book\"
or a \"book of the dead.\"7 The accuracy with which this informal title suits th
e content of the Wake, nonetheless, should by now be immediately apparent. As Jo
yce scholastically pointed out to Budgen-apparently in that season in which he t
ried to prod Budgen into writing \"James Joyce's Book of the Dead\"-the title by
which the Egyptians themselves knew the Book of the Dead, insofar as they knew
any such odd scattering of documents as now lies before us by any single formal
title at all, was the Chapters of Com-) 88) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))

ina Porth By Day, a title which throws an entirely different light on the con- t
ent within. s The meaning latent in this \"real\" title, of course, suggests how
Joyce would have found in the Book of the Dead's account of life in the \"seeme
tery\" a covert psychology of sleep; like the Wake, it turns out that the Book o
f the Dead can be read in either of two ways: as the stream of unconsciousness o
f a man dead to the world, or as the stream of unconscious- ness of a man sleepi
ly dead to the world. That Joyce was conscious of this kind of bivalent readabil
ity in his source is suggested by one of the hundred odd alternative titles for
the Wake-and here, the Book of the Dead as well-that he lists at the beginning o
f chapter I. v: \"How to Pull a Good Horuscoup when Oldsire is Dead to the World
\" (105.28-29). The line evokes the underlying spiritual drama on which the Book
of the Dead is based: the resurrection into light of the dead god \"Osiris\" th
rough the agency of his son \"Horus,\" a resurrection which every mortal Egyptia
n was understood per- sonally to reenact, with the help of the gods, after his d
eath; but it also clearly refers to the restful sleep of the old man (\"Oldsire\
") who lies em- bedded at the Wake, hosting premonitory, because wish-fulfilling
, dreams (hence the \"horoscope\.9 As a collective cultural document, the many \
"Chapters of Coming Forth by Day\" that make up the Book of the Dead comprise a
widely varied series of \"spells and incantations, hymns and litanies, magical f
ormulae and names, [and] words of power and prayers,\" which together were suppo
sed to serve the deceased man both as a guidebook to the unearthly topographies
of the next world and as a catalogue of verbal talismans, reference to which wou
ld rescue him from the many dangers and hostile demons that he was expected to m
eet there. 1O Singly, however, none of the papyri, stone carv- ings, mummy banda
ges, amulets, \"show coffins, winding sheets, . . . urns,\" or shards of pottery
on which the words of the Book of the Dead have been found quite exactly resemb
le one another (77.28-29): no two of these dead- man's books are identical. Whil
e Egyptologists have determined that all these sepulchral texts share many commo
n elements-often, indeed, whole chapters inherited over a long tradition-they ha
ve also discovered that each dead man had his own eclectically personalized vers
ion of the dead- man's book; while two deadmen's books might contain some of the
same chapters, moreover, the chapters might be written entirely differently. Fr
om these observations, archaeologists have inferred that every individ- ual who
could afford it consulted with his priests and scribes in the course of his life
time and more or less ordered-as one might today order the fur- nishings of a li
ving room-the writing of a guidebook that would answer) Inside the Coffin) 89)))

his own particular needs and desires in the next world. II The personalized docu
ment cited here as the Book of the Dead, accordingly, deserves a title both more
and less definitive. Since it is only one individualized version of thousands o
f books of the dead, it might more accurately be construed as The Scribe Ani's B
ook of the Dead, or, more resonantly, Ani's Wake; even more accurately, since it
deals with events that led Ani to his resurrection into daylight after his wake
, it might be entitled Ani's Chapters of Comina Forth By Day-or again, as Ani Wa
kes. A comparison likening a document this personal to the private furnishings o
f a living room, moreover, is not at all facetious: the Papyrus of Ani was paint
ed over years, both by Ani himself and by hired scribes, on a roll of papyrus al
most eighty feet 10ng;12 at Ani's funeral, it went into a tomb consisting of sev
enteen rooms, together with \"vases full of wine, beer, oil, perfumes, flowers,
bread, cakes, ducks, haunches of beef, and vegetables\"; with the tools that Ani
used to make a living in life, as well as with his bed, his pillow, his harp, h
is chairs and couches; with ushabti statuettes-magically to be evoked into life
in the next world-of servants and beasts of burden; 13 and with Ani's body, whic
h had been mummified over a period of seventy days, wrapped in linen ban- dages
inscribed with words from the Book of the Dead, and hermetically sealed inside o
f two thickly veneered coffins of sycamore wood, the inner one anthropoid, each
of which was written over with more words from the Book of the Dead. 1i Less wea
lthy Egyptians seem to have furnished their dead with less opu- lent tombs-and,

correspondingly, with less opulent editions of the Book of the Dead: they appare
ntly purchased briefer, ready-made copies of books of the dead from the establis
hments of local scribes, who kept in stock a selec- tion of these documents vary
ing in length, quality, and content and who would, once the purchase was negotia
ted, fill the dead man's name into blank spaces in the prefabricated papyrus jus
t before the funeral. 15 Even the poor man had his little variant of this genera
l cultural document: wrapped in linen and laid in an open grave with his new pai
r of sandals and a walk- ing stick meant to lighten his future travels, the corp
se of the poor man was furnished with a few inscribed amulets and tokens intende
d to guard him from dangers to be met in the next life. 16 Written roughly fourt
een centuries before the birth of Christ, according to Budge's chronology, the P
apyrus of Ani shares enough common elements with other books of the dead to have
enabled Egyptologists to classify it as one of the many \"Theban recensions\"-t
hat is, as one of several variations of the Book of the Dead which, because of t
heir common properties, were) 9 0) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
written at a historical moment in which Thebes was a center of power in the Egyp
tian kingdom. And, as many students of the Wake have noted, \"the thieves'rescen
sion\" (410.36-411.1 [or \"Theban recension\"]) is the one that Joyce studied wh
en he wrote the Wake: indeed, his hero is \"hinted at in the eschatological chap
ters of Humphrey's]ustesse ofthe]aypees and hunted for by Theban recensors who s
niff there's something behind the Bua of the Deaf\" (134.34-36) .17 While Athert
on rightly suggests that Joyce probably con- sulted the Papyrus of Ani in writin
g Pinneaans Wake, isolated passages in the book show that Joyce drew on another
Theban recension of another deadman's book, the Papyrus ofNu: \"the overseer of
the house of the oversire of the seas, Nu-men, triumphant, sayeth\" (493.30-31)
.18 This line echoes the opening invocations in chapters of Nu's Book of the Dea
d, as the name \"Numen\" implies: \"the steward of the overseer of the seal, Nu,
. 0 . begotten of the steward of the overseer of the seal, Amen-hetep, . . . sa
ith\";19 and it differs from comparable invocations in the Papyrus of Ani (\"the
scribe Ani saith\.") There is, furthermore, another Theban recension of yet ano
ther deadman's book situated in Dublin, in its museum; and since Stephen Dedalus
alludes knowingly to divinities of the Egyptian pantheon in A Por- trait and Ul
ysses, it is not inconceivable that Joyce would have been aware of it. 20 The Wa
ke's assimilation of these distinct papyri suggests not only how broadly Joyce s
tudied this material, but also how organically he would have contoured all of it
into the designs of Pinneaans Wake. Since each copy of the Book of the Dead has
as its subject a real individual, each copy of the book inherently differs from
all others; yet because two distinct books of the dead, one written for a scrib
e, and one for a steward of the overseer of the seals, might each contain tradit
ionally prescribed chapters identical in all matters but those of naming and phr
asing, the documents are at the same time collective and universal. Any book of
the dead, then, has at its center a hero like the Wake's: a real individual like
HCE who is also, dead to the world and \"reduced to nothing\" (499.3), like Her
e Comes Everybody.) \"IN THE OTHERWORLD. . . OF TWO-TONGUE COMMON\ As one might
expect from this account, the varying personal editions of each of the three mai
n variant recensions of the Book of the Dead that we possess offer, at least in
individual details, a confusing and often contradic-) Inside the Coffin) 9 1)))
tory sense of what exactly life after death was supposed to be-which is only to
note that even the most educated person, in the most stable period of Egyptian r
eligious history, was uncertain of his exact position in a cos- mos whose contou
rs changed and shifted with Egyptian centers of powers and senses of the univers
e. Collectively, however, the scattered remains of that general cuI tural docume
nt now known as the Book of the Dead yield a broadly coherent sense of the cosmo
s within which the ancient Egyptian understood himself to spin out his days. It
was a chilling and yet beautiful cosmography, whose architects poured their atte
ntion into the mapping of the landscape of a next and strange world. In their en

deavors to peer beyond the grave, Egyptian cosmographers devised an elaborate my

thology revela- tory of a universe haunted by gods and demons who bore human bod
ies under the heads of serpents, jackals, apes, and birds, and who walked among
blood- red lakes of fire and among fields of eternal peace. People lived under t
his cosmography and prepared themselves to die in it for almost five thousand ye
ars; it shaped the literate world almost three times longer than Christian- ity
has, and seventeen times longer than Newtonian physics. The cryptic hieroglyphic
s of the dynastic Egyptians offer us, then, as legitimate an understanding of hu
man mortality as does the scientific symbol-system that orders modern reality. A
nd in its own way, this determined cultural probe into the phenomenon of the wak
e turns out to have much to do with the simple, mundane experience of sleep. 21
Spatially, for example, the portals of entry into Amenti, the next world of the
Egyptians, were located in exactly the same place as are the opening pages of Pi
nneaans Wake: \"well to the west\" (3.21), at \"the place where the sun set\" at
day's end, that point in space at which the sun left the world and moved, accor
ding to empirical observation, beyond it. 22 To the ancient Egyp- tians, in fact
, the name \"Amenti\" denoted not only \"the Hidden Land\" and \"the kingdom of
the dead,\" but also \"the West,\" and in particular those spe- cific regions to
the west of the Nile where they situated their necropoli and ritualistically bu
ried their dead in order that they might find themselves near the gates of sunse
t and the other world. 23 A modern person, trained to know solar physics, will k
eep these many meanings clearly distinct from each other; but to the ancient Egy
ptian, they were all of a pun like unity: these people believed that somewhere i
n the west beyond their cemeteries there existed a concrete site at which the su
n moved out of the world- through portals that Joyce's Book of the Dead, for ins
tance, refers to as the \"Ghoststown Gate\" (329.25), the \"Gate of Hal\" (535.5
), or simply sunset, The semantic blur implicit in the word \"Amenti,\" finally,
seems actually to) 9 2) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
have effected the architecting of Egyptian cities: since the west was the land o
f the dead, many ancient Egyptian cities sprang up in such a way that the living
established their dwellings on the east bank of the Nile, while in the deserts
on the western side of the river they built their spectral necropoli. 24 Unlike
other primitive peoples, the Egyptians did not believe that the sun moved underg
round when it sank below the horizon; nonetheless, since none of their explorers
ever traveled far enough west into the mountains and sandseas of the Sahara act
ually to locate the place at which the sun caved into Amenti, the problems of it
s disappearance and of the advent of the night engaged their deepest attention.
In modern times we express our anxieties about comparable problems of transport
and disappearance by wondering of one another how we each get through the night.
Less ego- tistical than we have learned to be, the ancient Egyptians expressed
the same nyctophobic concern by wondering how the sun got through the night, dis
appearing as it did at sunset in one part of the world and reappear- ing in the
morning in a chamber of the sky diametrically opposite. They solved these diffic
ulties by evolving an elaborate metaphysics to explain the sheer physics of thei
r world-a metaphysics that took as its two basic prin- ciples the manifest forms
oftwo divine beings, both \"hidden\": Amen-Ra, the bearer of the sundisk, and O
siris Khent-Amenti (Lord of the Hidden Land of the Dead). According to Egyptian
cosmologists, the entire earth, consisting of Egypt and all known lands, was sur
rounded by a range of unapproachable moun- tains situated way beyond the periphe
ries of the visible world. Upon this ring of mountains rested the watery slab of
the oceanic sky, across whose deeps daily Amen-Ra traveled with the sun, in a b
oat, as the Egyptians understood it, a boat infinitely more glorious than those
which plied daily up and down the Nile, but nonetheless a comparable boat, since
the fiery warmth of the solar disk had in some way to be sheltered from the que
nch- ing waters of the celestial sea. 25 Empirical reflection will suggest why t
he Egyptians should have imagined the outer boundaries of the real in these exac
t terms: Egyptian adventurers never succeeded in traveling the neces- sary four
thousand miles to discover the sources of the Nile that Joyce makes so much of i

n the Wake; no matter how far they ventured, there always seemed to be another r
ange of mountains in the distance, or an ocean which they could not cross; and w
ater always came down out ofthe sky. Within the enclosed space of Egyptian reali
ty formed by this ring of remotely pillaring mountains and the superincumbent sl
ab of celestial waters, however, cos- mologists understood there to be two openi
ngs: that through which the boat) Inside the Coffin) 93)))
of the sun disappeared at night, and that through which it emerged in the mornin
g; these were the two gates through which dead men, like Amen-Ra in his boat, en
tered or left the realm of the dead. Since the Egyptians spa- tially located the
land of the dead in a region temporally equivalent to the night, Joyce was able
to elicit from their accounts of supernature descrip- tions of the human night,
so to bring the Wake, his modern book of the dead, into complete conceptual ali
gnment with the Book of the Dead. Like Joyce, moreover, Egyptian cosmographers f
aced great difficulties in discover- ing what exactly happened beyond the world
in the land of the dead. Since the Egyptians had as much trouble imagining an in
finitely exten- sive universe as we do today, they simplified the baffling conce
ptual prob- lems generated in their mappings of supernature by proposing that a
second, terminal range of mountains circumscribed that chain of remote mountains
which already bounded the real world. 26 This understanding accomplished two th
ings: first, it placed the hidden realm of the dead not in the incon- ceivable e
xpanse of infinity, but in a finite, enclosed body of space, a dark ring of extr
aterrestrial supernature surrounding the known world; second, it implicitly defi
ned a few of the basic features of the other world. Since people who lived and d
epended on the Nile naturally tended to conceive of any space between two ranges
of mountains as a valley, it became under- stood that an infernal river flowed
through the broad valley of Amenti. And since no one knew exactly where the Nile
originated, it was understood that the river flowing through the other world wa
s in some way a continuation of the Nile. As some Egyptian sepulchral texts expl
ain it, a living being who wished to reach the kingdom of the dead could do so n
ot only by dying or by traveling far enough west to reach the gate of sunset, bu
t also by passing through the two black holes that had long been observed behind
the waters of the Nile's First Cataract. 27 The supposition that the dead dwell
ed along the banks of a circular river in a dark, entunneled valley of this kind
, fi- nally, offered an economically simple explanation of the celestial physics
that brought about the night: once the boat of Amen-Ra vanished through the por
tals of sunset in the southwest, it navigated its way gradually north- ward and
then eastward through the enclosed, circular valley of Amenti- on a skewed plane
with the earth, but outside the ring of peaks that bounded it-until it emerged
triumphant, ten to twelve hours later, out of the gates of dawn. Much of what ha
ppened in the Hidden Land of Amenti could now be deter- mined empirically-by obs
erving events that occurred on the northeast and southwest horizons of the sky a
t dawn and dusk, or by moving as close to) 94) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
the edges of the real world as possible. Since the sun often disappeared from th
e world and reentered it in emblazonments of scarlet, for instance, it be- came
clear that there were regions of eternal fire in Amenti: the Egyptians were perh
aps the first people to discover hell and to chart the circular archi- tecture o
f the infernal world which, after three thousand years of modifica- tion, Dante
would describe in his Inferno. Since the morning sun often seemed to have troubl
e pushing its way into the world out of dark accumu- lations of thunderclouds-in
deed, since it had had to fight its way through the kingdom of night-cosmographe
rs also assumed that in the ten or twelve hours between nightfall and sunrise, t
he gods accompanying Amen-Ra in his boat had to battle continuously against the
forces of darkness. 28 What forms these forces took could be inferred from stori
es told by people who had in turn heard things from people who had traveled to t
he horizons of the earth-into the fiery regs and ergs of the Sahara and beyond t
he jungles of the Sudan, where explorers saw predatory beasts that rarely wander

ed into the everyday cosmos. 29 From these varied fragments of concrete observat
ion and hearsay of re- mote origin, Egyptian thinkers finally evolved a diffuse
sense of the fate of Amen-Ra in the afterworld: in each of the twelve hours of t
he night in which it sailed or was towed through Amenti, according to many sepul
chral documents, the boat of the sun passed through a continuum of twelve countries or kingdoms, all but one ruled and populated by demons and ani- malistic f
orces that mutilated and preyed on the souls of living things and that hungrily
tried to overpower Ra and his company before they reached the gates of morning.
30 In that hour which corresponded to the deepest part of the night on earth, fo
r instance, the sun entered the Kingdom of Seker, an archaic god of death, who r
uled, eternally unseen, over a domain of \"black- est darkness\" and \"bare, bar
ren, sandy deserts, wherein lived monster ser- pents.\"31 Since in this part of
the underworld-and in this part alone-even the infernal river vanished from view
, Ra and his company were forced to abandon the boat of the sunken sun and to mo
ve forward, through chinks of virtually impenetrable rock, in the body of a serp
ent out of whose mouth burned a weak, but illuminative fire. 32 In the next hour
, in another king- dom, Ra boarded the boat of the rising sun, which his attenda
nts towed up- stream along \"the secret road of Amenti, \" like a boat along the
Nile, toward the gate of dawn. 33 As Ra circumnavigated his way around the cosm
os through the other world, his name and form changed in ways concordant with th
e changed physical circumstances surrounding him: \"I am the god Tem in rising\"
; \"I am Khephera in the morning, Ra at mid-day, and Temu in) Inside the Coffin)
the evening\";34 in the depths of the other world, he was called Afu-Ra (\"the c
orpse of Ra\") ,35 The metempsychotic rhythms by which the name of Ra changed fr
om Tem to Temu as he passed from the world of the living into the world of the d
ead and then back again were ones that Joyce carefully ac- commodated to the sto
ry of his sleeper, \"Tim Finnegan,\" who also nightly falls dead to the world, a
nd then reawakens, and then falls down dead again: his name \"is Timb to the pea
rly morn and Tomb to the mourning night\" (139.IO-II [in wakeful consciousness h
e knows that his name is \"Tim,\" but when he's dead to the world, he becomes a
form of \"Tomb\"]); and, \"of course, he could call himself Tern, too, if he had
time to? You butt he could any tom\" (88.35-36). The nightmarish underworld thr
ough which the Wake's \"Timb\" fluidly drifts between sunset and sunrise, howeve
r, is as much the world encountered in sleep as that which people have understoo
d to be the world of the dead. One final observation about the cosmological fram
ework in which New Kingdom books of the dead are set will suggest how intricatel
y Joyce mod- ernized Egyptian tomb literature, much of it already consonant with
the Wake. It is undoubtedly confusing to read in the Book of the Dead of the tw
elve divisions of the Egyptian afterworld, of the fourteen regions into which ea
ch such division was again subdivided, of the three hostile gods who guarded the
doors of the palace in each subdivision, of the many preda- tory monsters who l
urked in the darkness about each such palace, and of the rituals that the dead s
oul of Ra had to perform in order to pass all of these named and numbered obstac
les: details like these, not really impor- tant to a modern reader, changed in e
very generation, with every slight shift of theocratic power, and in every perso
nally varied copy of the dead- man's book. As confusing as all this detail may b
e, the fundamental shape of the Egyptian otherworld remained nonetheless elegant
ly coherent, and simple in its beauty. Conceptually, as we have seen, the Egypti
ans envi- sioned this \"hidden land\" beyond the world as a ring of dark, naviga
ble space circumgirding and encompassing reality; as a finite, enclosed body of
space through which a circular river flowed, into which the light of the world d
isappeared at night, and within which the spirits of all things un- earthly beca
me manifest. But they also envisioned it as a human body- and, at least as we un
derstand it, as a sleeping human body. Whose body this was is made clear in ever
y other phrase of every book of the dead, and in maps of the other world that Eg
yptologists have discovered among some tomb scriptures. It is the body of Osiris
, the god who fell down dead to the world, like Tim Finnegan, and then came back

to life: \"My body) 9 6) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))

is buried\" . , . \"I am he who is hidden in the great deep\" . . . \"the Hidden
of Forms\" . . . \"I am in the Dweller in the Body\" . . . \"I am he who riseth
and shineth\" . . . \"0 Osiris, . . . wake up and be strong like unto Ra every
day. \"36 Unversed in modern cartography, ancient Egyptian priests and scribes t
here- fore drew their problematic maps of \"the Hidden Land\" of Amenti in curio
us ways: at the top of the \"map\" reproduced in figure 4.1, for example, the ot
her world is diagrammed as \"the body of a man bent round backwards in such a wa
y as to form a circle, and the toes touching the back of the head. This god is,
the [inverted] text tells us, Osiris, and it is his body which forms the circle
of the Tuat [another name for the Egyptian other world].\" 37 In a map of the co
smos dating from a much earlier period of Egyptian his- tory, an unnamed god-pre
sumably \"Osiris, Lord to the Uttermost Limit\"- is depicted lying asleep, or de
ad, on his back, with his legs bent around over the front of his body to form a
comparable circle; but here, Budge tells us, the void enclosed by the circular b
ody, rather than the body itself, \"is thought to represent the region where the
dead live.\" 38) / Osiris, the Other World) \"This god is Osiris and { his body
is the other world.\ Inverted figure of the goodess Nut. daughter of the sky, h
elping the disk of the sun to emerge from the booy of Osiris.) \"This god rests
in the Ant-boat (the boat of the morning sun) with the goos who are with him.\ {
) - The Sun __ Khephera. the beetlelike form that Ra assumed at dawn.) -........
. The company of goos who help Ra to arise at dawn. and who also helped Osiris t
o rise into wakened consciousness. From left to right they are: Sa (knowledge),
Hu (intelligence), Heka (goo of words of power), Thoth (goo of language), Keb (t
he earth). Isis, Nephthys, and three unnamed gods ( _ ).) Figure 4.1. Coffin Tex
t: Egyptian Supernature) Inside the Coffin) 97)))
Fragments of the myth of Osiris elusively invoked in all versions of the Book of
the Dead portray him as the one god in the Egyptian pantheon who came to earth
and took on the mortal lineaments of humanity, reigning as a beneficent lawgiver
and king of Egypt. He was, in the American idiom, permanently put to sleep by S
et, not coincidentally the god of night and darkness, who confined the dead body
in a casket and threw it into the sea. When Isis, the wife of Osiris, brought t
he corpse of her husband back to Egypt, Set thrust it below the world of light a
gain, hacking it into fourteen pieces and separately burying the dismembered par
ts in hidden locations all over the earth of Egypt; from this element in the myt
h, Egyptians came to understand that the body of Osiris encompassed the entire m
aterial uni- verse-\"Thy body is all pervading\"-rather in the way that the Wake
's sleeper, buried in his own body, seems to encompass the entire world in the o
pening pages of the Wake, when, dead to the world, he dreams of a land- scape st
retching from Phoenix Park to Howth Head without perceiving himself as the scatt
ered central subject who contains it. 39 Despite every- thing that the powers of
the night did to keep Osiris dead and buried, how- ever, the superior force of
the sun-god Amen-Ra woke him: moved by the entreaties of Isis, Amen-Ra sent to e
arth a company of gods who recollected the scattered being and returned him to l
ife; among this company was Horus, the son of Osiris and a god of the rising sun
, who now slew Set (\"How to pull a good Horuscoup when Oldsire is Dead to the W
orld\.") After his resurrection, because Osiris was the only god or man ever to
have died and returned to life, he became Osiris Khent-Amenti, Lord of the Under
- world and the new \"Prince of the night and of the thick darkness.\" 40 In thi
s position, finally, he brought into the Egyptian consciousness the possibility
of understanding that all mortals, after his example, might bodily enjoy life af
ter death in another world. 41 This account of the myth of Osiris, of course, de
liberately emphasizes its affinities with Pinneaans Wake; for here, too, Joyce w
ould have elicited from his Egyptian models a set of understandings applicable t
o his modern, sleeping man, who also lies in darkness on his back \"pending a ro
useruction of his bogey\" (499.1)-his body, like Osiris's, forming the space wit

hin which another world resides. 42 The myth of Osiris, finally, provided the an
cient Egyptian with a meta- physics that perfectly complemented the celestial ph
ysics contained in the myth of Amen-Ra. When, at sunset, the boat of Ra passed f
rom the world into the kingdom of the dead, it entered the domain and the body o
f Osiris, whose resurrective potencies were now put to work to repay the sun for
an old favor: according to the Theban recension of books of the dead, those) 98
gods who boarded the boat of Amen-Ra in Amenti to move it toward dawn were the s
ame gods who worked together to resurrect the scattered body of Osiris. As the s
olar agency of Amen-Ra helped to resurrect Osiris, so com- plementarily the chth
onic agency of Osiris helped the sun return to dawn after it passed, at nightfal
l, into his body. Together, these interlinked myths suggested not only that peop
le arose in the morning because the sun did, but also that the sun arose in the
morning because some humane, creative nocturnal power was there to resurrect and
wake up and see it: in under- standing that the physical universe was phenomeno
logically rooted in a knowing human body, these ancient people would have seemed
to Joyce pe- culiarly modern. The interdependence of these myths is suggested,
more- over, in the very form and verbal texture of the scribe Ani's Book of the
Dead: the Papyrus of Ani opens with a \"Hymn to Ra,\" follows with a \"Hymn to O
siris,\" and thereafter blurs the two figures so incessantly into a comple- ment
arity that at times it becomes impossible to say whose resurrective movement tow
ard dawn and whose descent into nocturnal darkness is the cause and effect of wh
ose. Everywhere alluded to and nowhere directly told in books of the dead, the c
oordinated resurrection stories of Osiris and Amen-Ra establish the cultural voc
abulary in which Egyptian mortuary texts are written. Apart from their religious
significance, these stories rather resemble in cultural substance, and in impor
tance to the particular work in which they occur, the coordinated resurrection s
tories of Tim Finnegan and Finn MacCool, to which the Wake everywhere alludes bu
t nowhere directly tells: none of these four narratives make up the real plot of
either of the two apparently plotless works in question, nor do they name the r
eal protagonists; for, like the Wake, every version of the Book of the Dead has
as its central figure a real person-the scribe Ani, the steward Nu, \"the first
pharaoh Humpheres Cheops Exarchas\" (62.2I)-who is not there, the dead man next
to whose corpse the particular dead man's book was found at rest. It is his pecu
liarly told story, central to each of these works, that is of essential interest
to us now.) APPLIED EGYPTOLOGY) One of the interesting features of New Kingdom
books of the dead are the \"Rubrics\" included with each of their various chapte
rs, which inform us in great detail of the ways in which those chapters were int
ended to be read.) Inside the Catlin) 99)))
Many of these rubrics directed a reader to \"know it on earth\"-that is, ap- par
ently, to commit a chapter to memory before he passed into the other world;43 ot
her chapters were to be spoken out loud \"regularly and con- tinually millions o
f times, \"44 or intoned under specified ritualistic circum- stances. 45 Yet oth
er chapters were to be inscribed on the coffin or recited by relatives at the to
mb. 46 Many of the chapters, however, were supposed to be recited or known after
death by the dead man himself.47 Extended sections of the Book of the Dead, con
sequently, put a reader into a position as diffi- cult of access as that afforde
d by the Wake: not only does the deadman's book look forward into the life that
people anticipated living after death; much of it, as the circumstances of its d
iscovery show, was supposed to be read there. Presuming to speak directly from t
he point of view of the corpse, the Book of the Dead may be one of the few books
on earth ideally written for an audi- ence consisting entirely of the dead. In
its utilitarian capacity as a guide- book to the other world, moreover, it had v
ery particular information to impart to the dead man: it told him how to move fr
om the life he had just departed to a secure place in the next world by steering
his way through the annihilative duration of time that would befall him between

the moment of his death and the moment of his resurrection into life after deat
h. Once the Egyptian dead man became translated out of the world and into the re
cumbent body of Osiris, he entered a region of space whose manifold terrors ever
y book of the dead maps out in considerable detail. Fundamen- tally the most hor
rifying of these terrors seems to have been the loss of all perception and sensa
tion in a form of \"blackest night\":) The Osiris, the scribe Ani, whose word is
truth, saith: -Hail, Temu [the sunken sun]! What manner ofland is this unto whi
ch I have come? It hath not water, it hath not air; it is depth unfathomable, it
is black as the blackest night, and men wander helplessly therein. 48) In an \"
unseen\" world of darkness this \"thick and impenetrable,\"49 it was even more h
orrifying to be deprived of the capacity to move, especially if one had earlier
learned that demonic predators and the agents of annihila- tion and decompositio
n prowled everywhere through the dark:) The Osiris Ani saith: -0 thou who art mo
tionless, 0 thou who art motionless, 0 thou whose members art motionless, like u
nto those of Osiris. Thy members shall not be motionless, they shall not rot (or
stink), they shall not crumble away, they shall not fall into decay.5o) The dea
d man who traveled unprotected into this sunless world found him- self powerless
to accomplish even the most feeble acts of self-preservation.) 100) JOYCE'S BOO
Inhabiting a universe with other dead men-\"those who are in inertness\" and \"t
hose who are asleep in the body of Osiris\" 51-his inert body could not eat, dri
nk, open its mouth to warn off predators, or bestir itself in the least. Unconsc
ious and immobile, the dead man found himself utterly vulnerable:) o I am helple
ss. 0 I am helpless. I would walk. I am helpless. I am helpless in the regions o
f those who plunder in Khert-Neter, I the Osiris Ani, whose word is truth. . . .
52) Underlying the Book of the Dead, then, Joyce detected an intricately de- tai
led reconstruction of the human night-and of vulnerable and uncom- fortable slee
p, in which a man awaits anxiously his resurrection from the dark. Few of us nee
d to worry, as the originators of Egyptian myth and sepulture seem to have worri
ed, about the vulnerable condition in which sleep-and later, burial-might leave
one, especially in a torrid land where the things of the night crept at large ar
ound mud-built houses whose bed- rooms could hardly have been impermeable. Yet t
he terrified vitality im- plicit in these passages allows us to know that the st
ate of oblivious inertia being explored here is as much in the nature of sleep a
s of death: knowing exactly how it felt not to have been there in the night, the
\"spooker\" of these passages (178.6 [\"spooky speaker\"]) seems to be projecti
ng his mem- ory of those unremembered parts of sleep past the moment of death in
to his future grave-where he meditates on his fate in cunningly elaborate ways.
From these passages, in turn, it should be evident how Joyce found the portrayal
of the interior of the corpse offered in the Book of the Dead appropriately ser
vicea ble to his own portrayal of the interior of sleep. So, for example, at the
end of a passage in which HCE, as \"the first pharaoh Hum- pheres Cheops Exarch
as,\" dreams of himself being \"subjected to the horrors of the premier terror o
f Errorland\" (62.21-25), Joyce draws on the rhetoric of English translations of
the Book of the Dead to describe the oblivious im- perception into which his sl
eeper momentarily sinks: \"We seem to us (the real Us!) to be reading our Amenti
in the sixth sealed chapter of the going forth by black\" (62.26-27) .53 That J
oyce has in mind as a \"premier terror\" of the dark \"errorland\" of sleep the
loss of consciousness is suggested by the name that he repeatedly uses throughou
t the Wake to refer to the Egyptian afterworld. \"Amenti\" was not the name by w
hich the ancient Egyptians themselves most commonly referred to the underworld o
f \"the Tuat\" or \"Khert-Neter.\" Many New Kingdom books of the dead, in fact,
use \"Amen- tet,\" \"Ament,\" \"Amenti,\" and \"Amenta,\" if at all, to name obs
cure subsec- tions of the realm more widely called the Tuat. Since the Wake, how
ever, is) Inside the Coffin) 101)))
\"basically English\" (II6.26), Joyce seems to have preferred the more obscure o

f these often interchangeable terms because of the less obscure English overtone
s it bore: \"the premier terror\" of the \"errorland\" of sleep, the terror that
caused \"Cheops\" to drive 100,000 laborers over the twenty years it took to bu
ild his pyramid, is that of \"amentia\" in its fullest sense, ofloss of mind and
conscious life. 54 Considering the demonic strife to which the boat of Amen-Ra
was sub- jected on every night that it passed in Amenti, the Egyptians judged it
ex- tremely dangerous to be transported to the dark, Hidden Land if, upon one's
arrival there, one found oneself inert and amental. Innumerable serpents, monst
ers, and demons roamed in this darkness-their means of subsistence revealed in t
heir names: \"devourer of the dead,\" \"eater of shadows,\" \"bone crusher,\" \"
he of the white teeth,\" \"eater of blood,\" \"the great god who car- rieth away
souls, who eateth hearts, who feedeth upon offal, who dwelleth in the darkness,
\" and so forth. 55 A cheerless fate therefore befell the ordinary man who passe
d into Amenti-the poor man, that is, who was not supplied with a guidebook suffi
ciently informed to spare him from all possible dan- gers. Like every other mort
al-like HCE in the opening pages of the Wake- he found himself immobile and unco
nscious when he first arrived in the dark entunnelment of the other world with h
is walkingstick, his winding- sheet, and the meager ration of food that his impo
verished relatives put into his grave. And he remained senseless, vulnerable to
predators, until that single hour of the night in which the boat of the sun sail
ed through the re- gion of Amenti in which he lay, bringing with its passage day
light and fresh air into the infernal gloom. This is the sort of relieved unders
tanding that filters dimly into the \"trapped head\" of the Wake's sleeper in th
e last chapter of the book when at dawn, after having lain motionless in the dar
k under- world of his body for the length of a night, \"going forth by black,\"
he begins to perceive, like a corpse stranded in Amenti, the light of the sun bo
ating into his awareness:) The eversower of the seeds of light to the cowld owld
sowls that are in the dom- natory of Defmut after the night of the carrying of
the world ofNuahs and the night of making Mehs to cuddle up in a coddlepot, Pu N
useht, lord of risings in the yonderworld of Ntamplin, tohp triumphant, speaketh
. (593. 20 - 2 4) 56) When HCE rises from his inertness in this underworld, he w
ill reawaken to a whole, new day of life in a familiar city. As the ancient Egyp
tian under- stood it, however, the dead man who was lifted from immobility when
the boat of Ra entered his part of Amenti wakened to his senses for only a lone)
dusky hour, and in that time, he had to look after his own survival in an utterl
y strange world. His course of action, as he had learned it on earth, was then c
lear: during this hour, he stumbled aimlessly forward, handi- capped by the need
both to fend off monsters, thirst, and hunger and to re- plenish his dwindling
provisions, all the while trying to locate in the twi- light of the new world th
at hidden region in the kingdom of Osiris in which he might enjoy the security o
f immortal life. But as soon as the boat of the sun left the region of Amenti in
which he wandered, light and air vanished, and the dead man sank back into an i
nertness from which he would not reawaken again-if at all-until the boat of the
sun reappeared. On every day that he managed to survive in the afterworld, in ot
her words, the aver- age Egyptian endured an almost unbroken night of vulnerable
sleep. A per- son in these circumstances was all but doomed to be taken by a be
ast, if not in his sleep, then in his single hour of wakefulness; without the pr
otection of \"words of power\" from a book of the dead, the duration of his life
in the life after death was only a matter of days. 57 Here, then, the Egyptians
developed a strangely sophisticated concept- that of \"the second death\"-the l
ike of which few other accounts of human mortality, primitive or modern, have ev
olved. Once we begin to consider human anxieties about the chances of survival i
n the other world-anx- ieties expressed in each of the passages from the Papyrus
of Ani already quoted-life after death turns out not to offer a release from th
e threat of death at all. The Egyptians were hardly refusing to come to terms wi
th the prospect of human finitude by evolving an eschatology in which a per- son
was understood to be twice mortal, for after a deceased man perished again in t

he other world, he did not advance reincarnate into yet another other world, but
was annihilated forever. This was the fate of the Egyptian masses, who passed f
rom life into the sleepy realm of Amenti, and from Amenti into nothingness. 58 T
he concept of the second death, then, opened up dark depths in a mythography tha
t might otherwise have failed to distin- guish the \"Real Absence\" of sleep fro
m that met at the end of human time. The understanding that a person could die t
wice, once on earth and once in the other world, made it possible for Egyptian t
hinkers to acknowledge that in the end the ordinary mortal passed from the world
into a nothingness unfathomably deeper than that endured in the night; and they
prayed, ac- cordingly, in their strange mortuary documents, not to be among the
multi- tudinous numbers of \"those who are to be annihilated.\"59 Curiously, th
en, the primitive incantations of the Book of the Dead turn out to be far less s
uperstitious than many modern accounts of death. The conception of the) Inside t
he Coffin) 10 3)))
second death, moreover, sensibly sophisticated the Egyptian understanding of wha
t life after death would be-and in ways almost unthinkable to Christian eschatol
ogy. For if the other world were at all to accommodate a humanity whose existenc
e was not independent of time, these people shrewdly reasoned that not only must
there be life after death, but there must be death after death as well. A man a
s wealthy as the scribe Ani hoped to avoid the second death and the fate of the
Egyptian masses: Ani's Book of the Dead contains, in addition to a \"Chapter of
Not Rotting\" and a \"Chapter of Not Perishing,\" two \"Chap- ters of Not Dying
a Second Time.\"60 As the Egyptians understood it, there were indeed two ways of
escaping annihilation and of entering into immor- tality. Depending upon the ci
ty and the period of Egyptian history in which one lived, one compiled a book of
the dead that invoked the aid of either of the two resurrective deities in the
Egyptian pantheon: Amen-Ra, who re- appeared on the earth each morning, or Osiri
s, who reawakened into life after falling under the powers of darkness. Worshipp
ers of Amen-Ra aspired to attain a place in the boat of the sun-\"the Boat of Mi
llions of Years\"- reasoning that if one secured a position in the sun god's com
pany, one would attain eternal light and never fear the disappearance of daytime
and sun- light and, correspondingly, of wakened consciousness. 61 Worshippers o
f Osiris aspired personally to reenact the god's resurrection and to enjoy im- m
ortal life, like Osiris, in that special, elysian region of Amenti called Sekhet
Hetep.62 The scribe Ani, who lived during a period of Egyptian his- tory late e
nough to have learned the niceties of theocratic politics, diplo- matically thre
w his faith into the resources of both of these deities at his wake: in the \"Hy
mn to Ra\" which begins his book of the dead, he prays that the Boat of Millions
of Years will pick him up at the gates of sunset, carry him through the underwo
rld, and drop him off at the Elysian Fields of Sekhet Hetep.63 In this way, appa
rently, he could experience as little as pos- sible of the dangerous swoon into
the realm of somnolent absence out of which other people disappeared forever. In
both of these means of attaining immortality, Joyce clearly perceived the Book
of the Dead bordering on a reconstruction of the human night; for anyone who man
ages to come into the company of the sun, or to rise up out of corporeal inertne
ss with the help of the sun, will also have moved through the night into morning
. So it happens that \"the boat of millions of years\" floats into the nocturnal
under- world of the Wake, without the need for much adjustment or translation o
f terms, directly from the Book of the Dead (479.25-26; 26.18-19, 418.5-6). It d
oes so most notably at moments in the night when Joyce's sleeper, a man) 104) JO
buried in his body and laid out dead to the world in his bed, begins to sus- tai
n an \"infrarational\" sense of his orientation in the night's \"seemetery,\" an
d of his steadily fluid and \"retrophoebi[c]\" drift toward \"the ra, the ra, th
e ra, the ra\" (415.10-12 [and dawn]; see, e.g., 479.18-36); for the force that
carries him toward morning and the company of the sun (hence, \"retro- Phoebus\"

) is identical to the divine solar power celebrated in Raite books of the dead.
Since the man asleep in Joyce's book of the dead lies transfixed \"in various ph
ases of scripture as in various poses of sepulture\" (254.27-28), the sym- bolic
forms of Egyptian burial must also now compel our attention. As the human subje
cts of Egyptian books of the dead understood it, one could nei- ther awaken from
inertia in Amenti and resurrect into a new life, nor escape the second death an
d enter the Boat of Millions of Years or the Elysian Fields ofSekhet Hetep, unle
ss one were properly buried. And as Egyptian theocratic history evolved, moving
from a predominantly Raite theology to a proto- Christian theology in which the
redemptive figure of Osiris loomed large, the rituals attached to a proper buria
l became more and more complicated and elaborate. New Kingdom Egyptians like the
scribe Ani and the steward Nu, encouraged by the culturally definitive example
of Osiris, came to be- lieve not only that the soul reawakened into new life aft
er death, but that its survival depended upon the preservation of the body as we
ll. At their funer- als, accordingly, they sought meticulously to reenact the ex
perience of Osiris, as a way of guaranteeing their spiritual resurrection in a n
ew spirit- body in the next world. In their books of the dead, they systematical
ly changed their names: the scribe Ani became \"the Osiris Ani,\" \"the Osiris t
he scribe Ani,\" or simply \"Osiris\";64 \"every dead Egyptian was identified wi
th Osiris and bore his name.\"65 This is rather what happens in the Wake, where
the real name of the sleeper gets lost, with his consciousness and identity, ins
tead to be recast in thousands of forms emblematic of his imminent mati- tudinal
resurrection: Christ, Tim Finnegan, Finn MacCool, King Arthur- and here, of cou
rse, Osiris. Egyptian morticians, observing that the soft internal organs of the
body decayed more swiftly than the musculature and skin, conformed to the religious expectations of their clientele by removing and \"scattering\" the parts
of a dead man's body while chanting hymns to Osiris: this procedure had the econ
omical effect of preserving the various organs of the potentially resur- rective
body from perceptible organic decay and simultaneously of replicat- ing the exp
erience of Osiris, whose entrails had been torn apart by the pow- ers of night a
nd separately buried. The embalmers, then, symbolically acted) Inside the Coffin
) 10 5)))
out the roles of the scattering destroyer, Set, and of the jackal-headed god Anu
bis, who was instrumental in accomplishing the physical rein corpora- tion of Os
iris. Inserting a curved iron rod up the corpse's nostrils, the em- balmers pull
ed the brain out of the dead man, dried it, and set it aside in a kit to be inte
rred with the rest of the body.66 Like their twentieth-century descendants, they
slit the corpse open at a spot somewhere to the left of and between the navel a
nd the groin, and from the wound they extracted the perishable intestines, heart
, stomach, and liver. Modern-day embalmers wash these entrails down drains;67 th
e Egyptians washed them with palm wine, stuffed them with gums and spices, seale
d them separately in four \"Canopic\" jars named after the four animal-headed de
ities who upheld the canopy of the sky at the four cardinal compass points of th
e universe, and blessed them with the names of four gods who helped reintegrate
the scat- tered Osiris. 68 After filling the hollows of the skull and trunk with
spices, gums, washing soda, and muddy Nile plaster, Egyptian morticians finally
wrapped the corpse in bandages that had been separately inscribed with the name
of the deceased and with verses from the Book of the Dead. 69 During the two mo
nths in which the deceased's body underwent this process of em- balming, the dep
arted soul presumably lay unconscious in Amenti, await- ing, like Osiris, the mo
ment at which his scattered body would be gathered together in order that within
it he might be resurrected into eternal life and brought into the company of th
e sun. This resurrection happened at the tomb, where the various kits and jars c
ontaining the organs of the dead man were collected together beneath the funeral
couch on which his coffin rested, and where the members of his fam- ily elabora
tely relived the myth of Osiris. Inscriptions on the outer syca- more coffin in
which the dead man lay suggested that the coffin was the womb of Nut, Osiris's m
other, out of which he would again be reborn; 70 the inner coffin was shaped in

the form of the body of Osiris himself.?l In turn, the lamentations of the dead
man's-the Osiris's-wife were heard as the en- treaties of Isis, who once again m
oaned to Ra the sun over the dead and broken body of her husband; the dead man's
oldest son, in whom the dead man lived on and in a manner defeated death, was u
nderstood to be an em- bodiment of Horus, the force of the rising sun, who once
again triumphed over the powers of darkness and helped his dead father to live o
n in the world. 72 At some time in this period of mourning at the tomb, apparent
ly, just as the funeral ceremony properly began, the inert soul in Amenti stirre
d dimly, assumed a spectre's consciousness, and began to move, Osiris- like, tow
ards resurrection. In Joyce's book of the dead, much the same kind) 106) JOYCE'S
of feeble stirring occurs to the man \"trapped head\" in the night's \"seeme- te
ry\" just after the Wake, and his wake, begin:) So may the priest of seven worms
and scalding tayboil, Papa Vestray, come never anear you as your hair grows whe
ater beside the Liffey that's in Heaven! Hep, hep, hurrah there! Hero! Seven tim
es thereto we salute you! The whole bag of kits, falconplumes and jackboots incl
oted, is where you flung them that time. Your heart is in the system of Shewolf
and your crested head is in the tropic of Copricapron. Your feet are in the cloi
ster of Virgo. Your olala is in the region of sahuls. And that's ashore as you w
ere born. Your shuck tick's swell. And that there texas is tow-linen. The loamso
me roam to Laffayette is ended. Drop in your tracks, babe! Be not un- rested! Th
e head boddylwatcher of the chempel of Isid, Totumcalmum, saith: I know thee met
herjar, I know thee, salvation boat. For we have performed upon thee, thou abram
anation, who comest ever without being invoked, whose coming is unknown, all the
things. . . concerning thee in the matter of the work of thy tombing. Howe of t
he shipmen, steep wall! (26.6-24)) As always at the Wake, it is worth asking who
se \"eyewitless foggus\" we share here: that of a body at its wake, or that of a
body not awake? Every element in this passage helps to locate us at the unconsc
ious interior of a corpse drifting darkly toward its resurrection in each of tho
se three distinct regions of space that the Egyptians topologically equated: wit
hin the scat- tered ruins of its own body, within the next world, and within the
world- encompassing body of Osiris. Some chapters from Egyptian books of the de
ad were designed to be read at the funeral specifically in order that the dead s
ubject of the book might hear the words and so begin the process of his own inte
rnally self-performed resurrection. Much the same design in- forms this moment i
n the Wake (pp. 24-26), where the corpse, the Osiris, hears voices-the voices of
four old men who stand at the four corners of his closed sycamore coffin 73 -pr
aying that he will not be assailed by worms, that he will not perish in one of A
menti's many lakes of boiling water, and that he will indeed reach the blessed k
ingdom in which he might cultivate wheat, the hair of Osiris, through eternity (
\"So may the priest of seven worms and scalding tayboil, Papa Vestray, come neve
r anear you as your hair grows wheater beside the Liffey that's in Heaven!\") ,7
4 Like the mummified Egyptian corpse whose \"eyewitless foggus\" is preserved in
books of the dead, the Wake's hero here seems dimly to lift into an awareness t
hat various organs of his body (\"heart,\" \"head,\" \"feet,\" \"0, la, la! \")
have been separated from his trunk, preserved by bottle-washing morticians in th
ose Canopic jars (\"kits,\" \"metherjar,\" \"boddylwatcher\,") and symbolically
scattered to the four corners of the earth and sky. In Egyptian mortuary practic
e, these four jars were surmounted by lids shaped in the forms of the heads of a
ni-) Inside the Coffin) 10 7)))
mals and man, each representing one of the deities who stood at the corners of t
he sky and therefore defined the limits both of the underworld and the body of O
siris;75 here, as is appropriate to a man embedded in the night, they limn out a
form loosely suggestive of the constellation Orion (hence the evocations of the
Zodiac). As in books of the dead, then, the corpse treated in this passage from
the Wake finds itself stirring to life in its own broken body, in the night-wor

ld of Amenti, and at the corners of the sky simultane- ously. Consciousness begi
ns to seep back into the spice-and-gum-filled hol- low of his skull-\" (skull!)
that was a planter for you, a spicer of them all\" (2S.22-23)-and the corpse lyi
ng in a part of the tomb construed as a \"temple ofIsis\" (\"chempel of Isid\")
apparently begins to recall phrases from the \"mummyscrip\" wrapped around him (
156.5) :76 the phrase \"I know thee\" (\"I know thee metherjar, I know thee salv
ation boat\") is a formula fre- quently invoked in the Book of the Dead. 77 The
Egyptians found it necessary for a dead man to use this phrase as a way of ackno
wledging his familiarity with the underworld and therefore of placating those ho
stile forces bent on bringing him his second death; but a modern reader can inte
rpret the for- mula more liberally: it recurs so insistently in books of the dea
d simply be- cause it asserts the possession of consciousness and the capacity t
o know. For anyone who can say \"I know\"-or know at all-is certainly not lost i
n the \"Real Absence\" of sleep, much less of death. And in the passage at hand,
as in books of the dead, the first things the reviving corpse wants to know are
the locations of his missing body and scattered entrails and of the solar \"sal
- vation boat\" that will carry him through \"the land of the souls\" (24.34), t
hrough the gates of dawn, and into the light and life of a new day in \"Healiopolis\" (24.18). This passage, in short, enables us to enter the skull of an enc
rypted Tutankhamen (\"Totumcalmum\") and to observe the form of unconsciousness
that rippled there for over three thousand years before his tomb was opened. In
a way there is nothing figurative about the passage at all: it reconstructs exac
tly, from the internal \"eyewitless foggus\" of the corpse itself, the kind of l
ife that Tutankhamen and his contemporaries imagined would follow death. In Joyc
e's book of the dead, \"th'osirian\" protagonist (350.25) within whose body the
other world is located lies scattered and scrambled in an only slightly modified
way. As \"Totumcalmum,\" he is simply a man who sleeps in \"total calm\" in \"C
hapelizod\" (\"chempel of Isid\,") an innkeeper (or \"boddylwatcher\") whose con
sciousness has disintegrated in the night. Because the Wake systematically striv
es to reconstruct the \"blank memory\" and \"eyewitless foggus\" of a body dead
to the world, it might now be con-) 108) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
strued as a \"mummyscrip\" whose content, like that of Egyptian \"winding sheets
\" (77.28), is \"the presence (of a curpse) \": \"for that (the rapt one warns)
is what [this] papyr is meed of\" (20.10- II). Like the mummy of Tutankhamen, mo
reover, Joyce's \"Totumcalmum\" also is enwrapped in linen cerements-\"bedding\"
(24.13), since he moves through the dark \"resting be- tween horrockses' sheets
\" (491.31-32 [where \"Horrocks\" is an English tex- tile firm and Horus is an a
gent of Egyptian resurrection]). He is also quite literally \"embalmed\" (78.6)indeed, \"healed, cured and \"embalsemate\" (498.36-499. I )-although the spirit
-preserving \"balm\" that lies in his veins and in his \"metherjar\" is far less
exotic than the palm wine and bitumen which Egyptian morticians used to keep th
eir clients from decay: a \"mether\" (Anglo-Ir. meadher [OED]) is a drinking tan
kard, and the potable balm within it seems to have passed into the veins of Joyc
e's sleeper to insure him of a particularly balmy sleep here. 78 That a void gre
at as the one internal to the constellation Orion suffuses this sleeping man is
suggested not only by the astra-anatomy of the passage, but also by its assignat
ion of \"Totumcalmum\" to \"the region of sahuls,\" a phrase that combines the p
rimary English meaning of \"the region of souls\" and the Middle Egyptian word s
ahu. Like other terms from the Book of the Dead adopted by the Wake, the word sa
hu itself turns out to be something of a pun, since it fuses together three disc
riminate meanings that a modern reader would tend to separate: at one and the sa
me time, the Egyptians used it as the word for \"spirit-soul\" (a part of the se
lf that lived after death), the word for \"mummy,\" and the name of the constell
ation Orion. 79 Like other elements in the passage, then, the phrase helps to se
t this moment in the Wake \"in the otherworld of the passing of the key of Two-t
ongue Common\" (385.4-5), although in Joyce's understanding, the otherworldly \"
region of sahuls\" was topologically indistinct from the world his hero has ente
red by having \"trapped head\" in sleep. For the Wake's embalmed \"Totumcalmum,\

" able only to \"no\" \"Real Absence,\" lies in much the same position as Tu- ta
nkhamen, simultaneously \"inert in the body,\" vaguely alert in the spirit- fill
ed otherworld like Amenti, and scattered throughout a universe formed in the sha
pe of the body of man. Nothing in this passage, finally, suggests that Joyce's \
"Totumcalmum\" is privy to the revelations of a collective uncon- scious or that
he has a deeply buried memory of Egyptian theology; for while the Wake suggests
that people derive their visions of the afterlife by unconscious reflection on
the experience of sleep, it also shows how they concretize those visions with im
ages drawn from material, historical reali- ties to which their generations alon
e have direct access. The point is not) Inside the Coffin) 10 9)))
that Joyce's hero has a memory, or even a knowledge, of ancient Egypt, but that
the Book of the Dead and the Wake speak \"two tongues in common\" (\"Two-tongue
Common\") because they both capture, in comparable hiero- glyphies, parts of hum
an experience in which \"our whosethere outofman\" seems not to be there. Both m
ap out the same other world. When Joyce's hero falls asleep in the \"seemetery,\
" accordingly, \"his heart, soul and spirit turn to pharaoph times\" (129.35-36)
. Two other features of this passage on \"Totumcalmum\" intensify its sepul- chr
al effects. The first of these is that apparently eccentric riff of American sla
ng which intrudes discrepantly in a context otherwise heavily echoic of the Book
of the Dead. This evocation of American idiom seems to have been Joyce's way of
reinforcing the understanding that his hero, at this point in the Wake, has inde
ed passed into the next world, the other world, \"the New World\": \"the ousts o
f Amiracles\" in the passage at hand (427.23 [not \"Amer- ica,\" but a realm of
\"miracles\"]); the remote outreaches of Australian \"Tossmania\" in the fable o
f the Ondt and the Gracehoper (416.30); the ex- tremities of British South Afric
a, in Jaun's saintly vision of \"the fulldress Toussaint's wakeswalks experditio
n\" (\"we shall all be hooked and happy, communionistically, among the fieldnigh
ts eliceam [Elysian] elite of the elect in the land oflost time. Johannisburg's
a revelation!\" (455.5-6,453.31- 34). A reading of the Book of the Dead enables
us to see how little contri- vance there is in the imaginative transaction by wh
ich Joyce transforms America and comparable ends of the earth into ciphers repre
sentative of an other or \"New World\" like Amenti in the Wake. In the Irish exp
erience of the last two centuries, as millions of countrymen left their loved on
es and emigrated from their native earth, these places were regions into which n
eighbors and relatives disappeared forever. Many of Ireland's emigrants, never a
gain seen alive by their relatives or friends, may just as well have been dead t
o those they left behind, as the Wake suggests in its recurrent portrayal of a s
on's departure from the known earth into the absence of an other and New World (
III.i, III.ii), and as Stephen Dedalus makes explicit in Ulysses when, in his di
scussion of Hamlet, he defines a ghost: \"What is a ghost? Stephen said with tin
gling energy. One who has faded into impal- pability through death, through abse
nce. . .\" (U, 188). So too in the passage at hand, which begins its exploration
of Totumcalmum's departure from life by evoking Gerald Nugent's Ode Written on
Leavina Ireland: \"to part from Dev- lin is hard as Nugent knew\" (24.25-26 [tho
ugh to part from life is harder]). Many of those people left behind on their nat
ive earth-no less than those who bemoaned the passage of the scri be Ani or the
steward N u into Amenti-) IIO) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
must have found the passage of loved ones into the New World of \"Amira- des\" h
eartbreaking-as the self-exiled Joyce would well have known: in his letters he r
efers to America, to which his son and daughter-in-law emigrated, as \"the ends
of the earth\" (L, III, 412). In the Wake, then, references to \"the New World\"
of America often become the ciphers for the New, unearthly World inhabited by t
hose \"deadported\" (536.2), in turn to deepen our sense of the absence amid whi
ch Joyce's sleeper dwells. Like the originators of the Egyptian books of the dea
d, who pieced together descriptions of the dark underworld of night by referring
indirectly to the unreal remotenesses of the Sudan and the Sahara, Joyce too we

nt to \"the ends of the earth\" to find the images with which to describe his he
ro's \"Real Absence\" in the night. All of the particular Americanisms informing
this passage on \"Totumcal- mum,\" as adjoining references to \"Pike County\" a
nd \"hogglebully\" suggest (25.28, 33), come from Huckleberry Pinn, a work in wh
ich Joyce perceived a new-world manifestation of the spirit of the ubiquitous Fi
nn who sleeps at his Wake. The phrase \"ashore as you were born,\" eccentrically
spelled as anything in the Wake, is actually a modification of the somewhat mor
e un- orthodox \"shore's your born,\" which appears in the twelfth chapter of Hu
ckleberry Pinn, at a moment when Huck, crouching \"in dead silence\" in the nigh
t on the \"texas\" of a wrecked steamer, overhears two men plotting the death of
a third. \"That there texas\" itself refers to the upper deck of a riverboat, o
n which the captain's sleeping quarters were located. In the Wake, it bears a re
lated meaning, apparently referring to Totumcalmum's own sleeping quarters (\"th
at there texas is tow linen\,") whose sheeting in turn seems made of something l
ike \"tow-linen,\" a rough fabric which Huck observes the children of Parkville
wearing when, attired only in garments like nightshirts, they are invited up to
\"the mourner's bench\" at an evan- gelical camp meeting to cast off sin and to
consider the prospect of heaven. It is on the differing qualities of sleep and r
est afforded by \"shuck ticks\" and \"straw ticks\" that Huck muses in the long
passage from Twain's novel which provided Joyce with detailing descriptive of th
e swell qualities of his own sleeper's bedding (\"your shuck tick's swell\") . E
ven apparently insubstantial expressions in this American interlude come from Hu
ckleberry Pinn: both the phrases \"drop in your tracks\" and \"the road to Lafay
ette\" occur in the novel, although Joyce embellishes the latter of these by ins
erting an ad- ditional \"f\" to remind us that however remotely his absent hero
may have been \"deadported\" to the New World, or Amenti, he lies simultaneously
in- ert in the province of the Liffey.80 Should these individual details seem t
oo arcane, the sonority and the locality of the passage alone should make its) I
nside the Coffin) II I)))
placement in the New World clear (all of the sixteen places on the earth named \
"Lafayette\" are in the United States). The reasons for which this New World ent
ers the sleeper's dream in this part of his night should also be clear from line
s internal to the passage: \"the loamsome roam is ended\" (the \"lonesome road\"
to the \"loamy\" grave), \"drop in your tracks,\" and \"be not unrested\" spell
matters out quite explicitly. The enshrouded, embalmed, and scattered hero of t
his book of the dead, enduring his own \"Real Ab- sence\" from life, is beginnin
g to orient himself in a strange, amental, New World like Amenti. 81 The last ph
rase in the passage on \"Totumcalmum\"-\"Howe of the ship- men, steep wall!\"-in
tegrates its Egyptian and New Worldly features with the Wake's many evocations o
f Viking howe- and ship-burials: again, Totumcalmum is embedded and dead to the
world (\"steep wall\" = \"sleep well\.") But the phrase also reinvokes the Book
of the Dead by calling atten- tion to other peculiar features of Egyptian sepult
ure. In the Old Kingdom \"mastabah\" tombs, notably-mentioned in the opening pag
es of the Wake (\"Damb! He was dud! Dumb! Mastabatoom, mastabadtomm!\" [6.IO-II]
)- the corpse of the deceased man was not laid to rest in the spacious rectangular building that lay above ground; this was built for the benefit of the living, who came there to placate the deceased spirit with \"offerings of the field
\" (d. 24.34-25.8). Instead, a walled-off vertical shaft forty to eighty feet de
ep was sunk through the ceiling and floor of the tomb, and, at the bottom of the
shaft, a narrow, horizontal mummy chamber was hollowed out to hold the corpse.
At burial, his double coffin was lowered down the shaft from the roof and pushed
aside into the mummy chamber, which was then walled up and sealed off, the stee
p, vertical shaft in turn being crammed full of rocks and boulders. This laborio
us form of burial, as Joyce's phrasing suggests, was not only intended to insure
the absolute security and rest of the preserved body (\"Be not unrested\" . . .
\"sleep well\" beneath the \"steep wall\;") it also protected the living from t
he possibility of assault by the dead (\"We have performed upon thee, thou abram
anation ['abomina- tion' and 'Abram'-like forebear] who comest ever without bein

g invoked, all things concerning thee in the work of thy tombing\" ) .82 One add
itional curious feature of these tombs deserves the special atten- tion of a mod
ern reader: the actual doors of mastabah tombs, through which the living entered
the building, were usually situated in the eastern wall, so that the mourner mi
ght face the west, the locality of the sunset and the Hidden Land of Amenti, upo
n entry. There, on the western walls of these structures, the architects of post
mortality painted \"false doors,\" embel-) I12) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
lished with the name of the deceased and inscribed with prayers for his eter- na
l survival, through which the spirit of the dead man presumably came forth and w
ent into the Hidden Land, the New World in the far west. As Egyptian history evo
lved, however, and as more members of lower classes undertook the expense of rit
ualized burial, the shape of the mastabah tomb changed in such a way that its mo
st material parts vanished and its most immaterial ones became most prominent: m
embers of the lower classes, who could not afford to build the whole mastabah to
mb, supplied their dead with only the false, painted gateways to the west. The r
esulting ste- lai-stone slabs shaped in the forms of arched doorways and gates f
acing west, inscribed simply with the names of the dead and a few simple com- me
morative prayers-seem to be the original prototypes of our modern tombstones. 83
As the Wake's treatment of \"Totumcalmum\" shows, Joyce clearly found the force
of sleep palpably manifested not only in Egyptian books of the dead and in the
extraterrestrial geographies they mapped out, but also in the material forms of
Egyptian funeral practice and sepulture themselves. Even though the owners of bo
oks of the dead evolved the sobering concept of \"the second death,\" the second
death itself, by an inevitably consolatory reflex, was always understood to hap
pen to someone else, never to the sub- ject named in his own funerary papyrus. I
n the mortuary documents out of which Western letters and conceptions of death o
riginated, Joyce perceived a desperate effort to convert \"the silence of the de
ad\" (452.20) into the im- minently resurrective silence of sleep. For if death
were regarded only as a lapse into a form of sleep, then everything occurring af
ter death must be in the nature of sleep itself, a duration of \"suspensive exan
imation\" before the resurrection of the body (143.8-9). Passage after passage i
n the Wake, ac- cordingly, treats its sleeping protagonist as one of the Egyptia
n dead lost in \"old nekropolitan nights\" (80.1-2). Here, for instance, at a mo
ment in the middleofsleep when \"Totumcalmum\" moves his head and generates a th
ought that vanishes immediately and forever from the sands of his memory:) Mask
one. Mask two. Mask three. Mask four. Up. -Look about you, Tutty Comyn! -Remembe
r and recall, Kullykeg!) (3 6 7. 8 - II )) Passages like these finally show why
the Wake should have found the waked Tutankhamen a perfect cipher for its somnol
ent protagonist, \"Totumcal- mum\": Joyce sustains an equivalence between these
two figures throughout) Inside the Coffin) II3)))
his \"bog of the depths\" (516.25) not because his hero has any substantial know
ledge of Tutankhamen, and not because the Egyptians thought at all of Tutankhame
n's death simply as a species of sleep; but because Tutankh- amen was presumed a
t death to experience the same quality of nothingness, to enter the same kind of
other world, and to move toward the same kind of solar resurrection as Joyce's
sleeper. These lines also conveniently return us to that earlier passage descrip
tive of \"Totumcalmum,\" where the scattered and enshrouded protagonist of the B
ook of the Dead had barely begun to undergo the process of burial and the long r
esurrective movement that would lift him from dark oblivion into a new life and
dawn. When we last entered the gum-stuffed and amental skull of this dead man, h
is consciousness and \"sahul\" were barely beginning to stir alive in Amenti and
in the embalmed parts of his body, \"all matters in the work of his tombing\" h
aving only begun. In order to help the inert Osiris in Amenti rise up from the l
ethargy that left him helplessly vulnerable to the second death, the Egyptians b
elieved that a sequence of funerary rituals had to be performed on the mummy, so
that the dead man might regain the will and consciousness necessary for his ind

ependent survival in the New World. Joyce's book of the dead evokes these mortua
ry procedures because all books of the dead contained crucial chapters correspon
ding to each- chapters that described events transpiring inside the mind of the
corpse as funerary priests on earth treated it to insure its resurrection. After
offering an internal understanding of the nullity felt by a dead man awaiting t
he resurrection of his body, in other words, the Book of the Dead also minutely
documented the various stages by which the corpse would rise up from its mortal
inertia to return to life. The chapters chronicling this resurrective movement f
orm a substantial part of books of the dead and, in a way, consti- tute its plot
-the forward, linear, chronological movement that governs the placement of the v
ariable chapters in each variant book of the dead. As the titles of these chapte
rs alone suggest, they would have provided Joyce with an internalized account of
the process by which a man dead to the world ascended from \"Real Absence\" to
wakened, literate consciousness. Primary among these chapters and corresponding
funeral rites is \"The Chapter of Opening the Mouth,\" which Joyce evokes severa
l times in the Wake: once, for example, in a phrase that describes HCE's sleep a
s \"going to boat with the verges of the chaptel of the opering of the month of
Nema Knatut\" (395.22-23) ;84 and also, at the beginning of chapter Lv, in the t
itle \"Of the Two Ways of Open in a the Mouth\" (IOS.23-24) .85 At the ceremony
of Opening the Mouth, two priests anointed the bandaged mouth and eyes of) 114)
the Egyptian corpse with a series of symbolic instruments and read from the Book
of the Dead, thereby empowering the mummified Osiris to throw off his healing b
andages and to open his mouth and his eyes in the underworld. 86 In the \"Chapte
r of Opening the Mouth\" corresponding to this ceremony in the Papyrus of Ani, e
xtraordinary things happened in the consciousness of the dead man once the pries
ts liberated him, to invoke two of the Wake's central terms, from dumbness and b
To be said:- The god Ptah [the celestial blacksmith, who forged the human body]
shall open my mouth. and the god of my town shall unfasten the swathings, and th
e swathings which are over my mouth. Thereupon shall come Thoth [the god of inte
lligence and literacy], who is equipped with words of power in great abundance,
and shall untie the fetters, even the fetters of the god Set, which are over my
mouth. 87) Prepossessed by those \"swathings,\" nineteenth-century Egyptologists
sur- mised that Egyptians devised the ceremony of \"Opening the Mouth\" be- cau
se they \"foresaw that when a man had been made into a mummy, if life were retur
ned to him by magical means, it would be impossible for them to move their membe
rs because of the bandages with which they were swathed, and he could not breath
e, [eat, drink, or talk] because his mouth would be closed by swathings also.\"8
8 In]oyce's reading, however, the Egyp- tian seems to have feared in death a \"f
ettering\" of far greater strength than that imposed by any winding sheets. In l
ife, no doubt, a man like the scribe Ani had observed the fettering rigor mortis
and inanimacy of the dead, and in his sleep, no less doubtfully, he had experie
nced something like rigor mortis internally. For in the classical Hemmunastraum,
the dream ofphysi- cal constraint obliquely reflective of sleep's power to para
lyze the body, the dreamer typically envisions something frightening, tries to s
hout or move, and finds his mouth and body fettered helplessly still-as in the B
ook of the Dead:) Permit not thou to come nigh unto me him that would attack me,
or would injure me in the House of Darkness. Cover over the helpless one, hide
him. . . . Grant thou that I may come forth, and that I may be master of my legs
. . . . Let none come to see the helpless one. 8 ?) That the compilers of the Bo
ok of the Dead in part translated the memory of sleep into those chapters descri
bing the corpse's \"opening of the mouth\" is furthermore suggested by the relat
ionship of these chapters to others. \"Chapters of Avoiding Thirst and Hunger\"
in various books of the dead show that the Egyptians knew what it felt like to b
e inert, \"fettered,\" simultane-) Inside the Coffin) 115)))

ously subject to the tantalizing desire for food and water, and yet incapable of
\"opening the mouth\";90 difficulties of this sort, recurrently disrupting the
sleep of \"Humpheres Cheops Exarchas,\" arise comparably in the Papyrus of Ani,
as many thankful and victorious exclamations in his chapters of com- ing forth b
y day attest: \"I eat with my mouth. I evacuate with my body. Behold, I am the g
od of the Tuat.\"91 In Ani's book of the dead, as in others of the Theban recens
ion, \"The Chapter of the Opening of the Mouth\" (chapter XXII) is aligned seque
n- tially with others in a plotted progression that makes its significance to th
e Wake's reconstruction of the night especially clear: following the \"Chapter o
f Opening the Mouth\" one finds \"The Chapter of Bringing Words of Power to the
Deceased\" (chapter XXIII) and \"The Chapter Which Maketh a Man to Remember His
Name in Khert-Neter\" (chapter XXV).92 In the reasoning of the Book of the Dead,
the deceased Egyptian could not fend off the phan- tasmal threats found in Amen
ti unless he possessed the literate power to re- cite charms; nor could he gain
the paradisaical reaches of Sekhet Hetep un- less he remembered his name. Strand
ed in strange kingdoms, he could not utter with a mouth close by death such cruc
ial formulaic phrases as \"I know thee, and I know thy name, and I know the name
of her who is within thee.\" 93 \"Opening the Mouth,\" then, seems to have mean
t much more to the Egyptians than the casting off of facial bandages. By interna
lly opening a mouth helplessly and involuntarily closed-whether in sleep or in d
eath- \"the inert one in the body\" regained the extinguished capacity for speec
h, language, consciousness, and knowledge: only then could he say, \"I am the ma
ster over myself and over the attributes of my head. \"94 A passage close to the
end of Pinneaans Wake allows us fully to appreciate the experience internal to
the inert Egyptian mummy in the hour of his fu- neral. Here, in the early hours
of the morning, Joyce's \"Totumcalmum\" lies alone on his funereal bed, just aft
er the boat of the sun has risen into the world above him to carry him out of th
e depths and darknesses of\" Amenta\":) Yet is no body present here which was no
t there before. Only is order othered. Nought is nulled. Fuitfiat! Lo, the laud
of laurens now orielising benedictively when saint and sage have had their say.
A spathe of calyptrous glume involucrumines the perianthean Amenta: fungoal- gac
eous muscafilicial graminopalmular planteon; of increasing, livivorous, feelful
thinkamalinks; luxuriotiating everywhencewithersoever among skullhullows and cha
rnelcysts of a weedwastewoldwevild when Ralph the Retriever ranges to jawrode hi
s knuts knuckles and her theas thighs; onegugulp down of the nauseous forere bra
rkfarsts oboboomaround and you're as paint and spickspan as a rainbow; wreathe)
the bowl to rid the bowel; no run cure, no rank heat, sir; amess in amullium; ch
lorid cup. (613.13-26)) All of the words in the opening clause of the last parag
raph quoted here, except for \"Amenta,\" are English: a \"spathe\" is a large, s
heathing leaf that encloses the flowers of certain plants; \"calyptrous\" pertai
ns to the \"ca- lyptra\" \302\253 Gr. kalyptra, \"covering,\" \"occulting,\" \"v
eil\,") the hood that en- closes the sporecases of certain mosses; a \"glume\" i
s one of the leaves that forms the outer envelope of the flowering parts of gras
ses or sedges, as in a husk of corn; \"perianthean,\" comparably, pertains to th
e \"perianth,\" the structure that forms the outer enwrapments of flowers; and t
he ]oycean verb \"involucrumines,\" finally, derives from the English \"involucr
e\" or \"in- volucrum\" \302\253 L. \"envelope\,") an anatomical and botanical t
erm applied to the outer, enveloping membranes of plants and animal organs. The
sense that the paragraph is describing the imminent unfurling of an inflorescent
core of vegetable matter-a self-enclosed blossom, or \"chlorid cup\"-is re- inf
orced by its second clause; here Joyce provides a compressed history of the evol
ution of botanical life as the language advances, term by term, through a sequen
ce of words denoting more and more complex forms ofveg- etable life: \"fungaceou
s and algal\"; \"muscal\" (pertaining to mosses) and \"filical\" (pertaining to
ferns); \"graminal\" (pertaining to grasses) and \"pal- mular\" (pertaining to p
alms). As the culminative term in this heptad ofbo- tanical names suggests, the
encored flower opening up to light here seems to be that of the palm tree; and b

ecause this passage is temporally set in the East-oriented, heliotropic moment o

f dawn, the palm flower that the corpselike protagonist of this book of the dead
has in mind seems to be that of the date palm of Egypt-the phoenix palm, Phoeni
x dactylifera-a tree whose blossoms are, in fact, enveloped by \"spathes\" and \
"perianths.\"95 These details, at least, would account for the vitality that Joy
ce's interred hero, the most evolved form of vegetative life that the earth has
ever seen, feebly senses as he lies in a \"spate\" of nocturnal, \"amental gloom
.\" That the passage reconstructs, once again, the \"tropped head\" of a man dea
d to the world is made clear in the first of its paragraphs, which states that \
"there is no body present\" and-in an ambiguous clause that can be read either r
e- strictively or nonrestrictively-that this absent body \"was not there before\
" either. As the paragraph evolves further, however, and as \"feeling\" and \"th
inking\" begin to infuse the blossoming palm (\"feelful thinkamalinks\, a cleare
r sense emerges of the actual circumstances generating this moment in Totumcalmu
m's sleep.) Inside the Coffin) II7)))
The paragraph seems to be about the buried man's mouth (a \"skullhol- low\,") re
ady to undergo the resurrective ceremony of opening up as his tongue, riding out
to his jaw (\"jawrode\,") hits against structures of bone (\"knuts knuckles\")
and soft labial flesh (\"theas thighs\") in an act of \"re- trieval\" (\"Ralph\"
derives from the Old Nor. Rathulfr, \"the cunning of the wolf,\" and the kennin
g of the wolf is at its muzzle). Our hero seems to be undertaking one of those e
xploratory morning yawns in which the tongue casually surveys the teeth and lips
in an annular motion (\"wreathe the bowl\,") finds the ground of its activity d
isgusting (\"nauseous forere brark- farsts\,") executes a retreat (\"onegugulp d
own of the nauseous,\" \"wreathe the bowl to rid the bowel\,") and then falls ba
ck into a state of wishful pla- cidity (\"you're as paint and spickspan as a rai
nbow\.") \"No thing making newthing wealthshowever\" (253.8-9), the dark and emp
ty space within his mouth moreover differs little from the void contained within
the closed enwrapments of a flower. Since the corpselike protagonist himself se
ems dimly to perceive the taste of decaying vegetable matter inside that mouth\"increasing, feelful thinkamalinks luxuriotiating everywhencewi thersoever amon
g skullhullows and charnelcysts\"-he registers the subliminal aware- ness in the
appropriate vegetative imagery. The condition afflicting him here, on one level
, is simply what Leopold Bloom, feeling unpleasant under comparable circumstance
s, calls \"morning mouth,\" which, he adds, sends \"bad images\" into the head a
round it (U, 61 [the L. luxurio in \"luxuriotiat- ing\" = \"I am rank\"]). At th
e Wake, however, \"the inert one buried in the body\" seems unconsciously aware
that the bacterial forces which generate the bad taste of \"morning mouth\" diff
er little from the bacterial forces which, if left unarrested, generate putrefac
tion within the \"charnel cysts\" of the dead man's \"hollow skull.\" Here again
, the Wake seems virtually to replicate the \"eyewitless foggus\" of a corpse-a
corpse now able to \"no\" that the agents of putrefaction are growing inside out
of itself. Like the subjects of books of the dead, the man sleepily dead to the
world at the Wake has the taste of mortality in his mouth-although, as it also
happens to the en- shrouded Osirises of those books, his mouth will soon be open
ed, like the dark core of the phoenix palm blossom, to the light of the boat of
Ra. 96 For- tified by its knowledge of the Book of the Dead, then, the Wake here
answers the haunting eschatological question of how the decaying corpse, buried
in loamy inertia and scattering throughout the material universe, initiates the
process by which it resurrects itself bodily into life: it opens its mouth in t
he hour when the sun moves through the gates of dawn, and, as paragraphs subsequ
ent to this one in the Wake show, it lets language, consciousness,) II8) JOYCE'S
knowledge, and sunlight flood back in to replace the darkness. In Joyce's book o
f the dead, the opening of the mouth accomplishes the same miracle treated in it
s Egyptian antecedents: it resurrects. Like the embedded man whose unconscious e

xperience this passage reconstructs, the corpses who speak out of Egyptian books
of the dead are internally aware of the forces of decomposition threatening to
over- whelm them:) And when the soul hath departed, a man seeth corruption and t
he bones of his body crumble away and become stinking things, and the members de
cay one after the other, the bones crumble into a helpless mass, and the flesh t
urneth into foetid liquid. Thus man becometh a brother unto the decay which come
th upon him, and he turneth into a myriad of worms, and he becometh nothing but
worms, and an end is made of him, and he perisheth in the sight of the god of da
y. . . .97) One of the mortuary practices that prevented this kind of onslaught,
of course, was embalmment; but there were others. \"Under the Old Kingdom the d
ead were anointed with the Seven Holy Oils, the names of which are duly set fort
h in the Liturgy of Funerary Offerings, and on the alabaster anointing slabs\";9
8 and under the New Kingdom, the ritual of anointment was incorporated into the
ceremony of \"Opening the Mouth,\" where the fu- nerary priests, in a primitive
form of extreme unction, applied unguents to the lips and eyes of the deceased.
Valued in life as medicines that insured the health, cleanliness, and fragrance
of the body, these ointments seem to have performed a comparable service for the
corpse, who, sick with mortality and corruption, benefited both physically and
spiritually from their cura- tive powers. Whole medicine cabinets full of these
sacred unguents were stored in the tombs of Egypt's dead, apparently so that the
person who had passed into death could draw upon them in the process of resurre
ction and restore himself magically to life and health. 99 A comparable kind of
restora- tion preoccupies the corpse \"trapped head\" at Joyce's Wake when, gath
ering toward resurrection, he imagines the voices of young women addressing a re
juvenated version of himself as he departs from his native earth into an- other,
New World:) . . . when you will be after doing all your sightseeing and soundhe
aring and smell- sniffing and tastytasting . . . send us, your adorables, thou o
verblaseed, a wise and letters play of all you can ceive . . . from your holy po
st now you hast ascertained ceremonially our names. Unclean you are not. Outcast
e thou are not. . . . Un- touchable is not the scarecrown on you. You are pure.
You are pure. You are in your puerity. You have not brought stinking members int
o the house of Amanti. Elleb Inam, Tipep Notep, we name them to the Hall of Hono
ur. Your head has been) Inside the Coffin) 119)))
touched by the god Enel-Rah and your face has been brightened by the goddess Aru
c-Ituc. Return, sainted youngling, and walk once more among us. (237.16-30)) Muc
h of the passage comes directly from the Book of the Dead. In the Papyrus of Nu,
for example, the spirit of the departed exclaims:) I am pure. I am pure. I am p
ure. I am pure. My pure offerings are the pure offerings of that great Benu (pho
enix?) which dwelleth in Hensu.) And later:) I am pure. My breast is purified by
libations, and my hinder parts are made clean with the things which make clean,
and my inner parts have been dipped in the Lake of Truth. There is no single me
mber of mine which lacketh truth. I have washed my- self clean. . . .100) At the
close of the ceremony of \"Opening the Mouth,\" finally, the Sem priest recited
comparable words as he smeared ointment on the lips of the corpse: \"I have ano
inted thy face with ointment, I have anointed thine eyes. I have painted thine e
ye with uatch and with mestchem. . . . Thy two eyes are decked therewith in its
name of Uatch, which maketh thee to give forth fra- grance in its name of Sweets
melling.\" 101 In Pinneaans Wake the sacred mortuary unguents that have been app
lied to \"the presence (of a curpse)\" are rather more mundane. As William York
Tindall has noted, the pseudo-Egyptian deities \"Enel-Rah\" and \"Aruc-Ituc\" ar
e simply the skin care products \"Harlena\" and \"Cuticura\" spelled back- ward,
and the anointed members of the inert body are simply the modified Italian Bell
e Mani (\"beautiful hands\") and the French Petit Peton (\"little tootsy\") in r
everse; in Tindall's phrase, \"reversal means renewal.\" 102 Had Joyce been able
to tour a contemporary drugstore, he may well have modi- fied his inverted phra
sings: the shelves of these \"pharmacies\" carry bottle after bottle of unguents
with names like \"Wrinkle Away,\" \"Dermalife,\" and \"Nutraderm,\" and the bac
ks of these bottles usually feature a little paragraph advising one to \"Apply f

irst thing in the morning, last thing at night.\" 103 The gerontophobic names of
these magical medicines and the in- structions pertaining to their use clarify
the passage of the Wake under our attention: like the perfumed oils with which t
he Egyptians anointed their dead, the products here named in reverse foster the
illusion of turning back time and reversing the process of aging and dying; like
the funerary uatch and mestchem ointments, they hide the odors of the body, and
the body it- self, from people trained to attach greater value to things ofthe
spirit. There) 120) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
is little contrivance, then, in the understanding by which the Wake sees the app
lication of these products to the skin at bedtime as a kind of extreme unction,
an anointing of the flesh in the hour at which it falls down dead to the world t
o release the soul into the underground of \"Amanti\": these oint- ments protect
Joyce's sleeping hero from the certain threat of his own mor- tality. If, like
the Egyptian dead, the man \"trapped head\" atJoyce's Wake has been invigorated
and preserved with the embalming fluids of potent spirits, so too have he and hi
s wife been anointed before their passage into the dark- ness-with extreme ungue
nts whose names seem to be, if not \"Harlena\" and \"Cuticura,\" then \"Nivea\"
and \"Pond's Cold Cream.\"I04 Once the Egyptian corpse had undergone its curativ
e anointing and the ceremony of \"Opening the Mouth,\" the responsibility for it
s resurrection passed from the funerary priests and relatives to the dead man hi
mself, who was now fortified with the powers of articulacy and literate consciou
sness. It was at this critical moment in the slow resurrective process that the
Book of the Dead assumed a utilitarian value to the corpse stranded in Amenti, a
s the following passage from the Wake suggests:) -Let Eiven bemember for Gates o
f Gold for their fadeless suns berayed her. Irise, Osirises! Be thy mouth given
unto thee! . . . On the vignette is a ragingoos. The over- seer of the house of
the oversire of the seas, Nu-Men, triumphant, sayeth: Fly as the hawk, cry as th
e corncake, Ani Latch of the postern is thy name; shout! -My heart, my mother! M
y heart, my coming forth of darkness! (493.27-35)) Here, as in the Book of the D
ead, the moment being celebrated is not that of complete resurrection, but a mom
ent of incremental liberation from the forces of inertia and obliviousness. The
numinously renewed dead man (\"Nu-Men,\" \"I rise\") has not quite yet found his
way out of the realm of darkness and death, and the Wake, the wake, is not yet
over; having passed beyond the Gates of Sunset (\"Gates of Gold\,") he has merel
y had his mouth opened by priests of Osiris and Amen-Ra (\"fadeless suns berayed
\") who re- cite the funeral liturgy (\"Arise, Osiris! Be thy mouth given unto t
hee!\. Finding his capacity for articulacy and literacy renewed, however, the Eg
yptian dead man reborn in Amenti would have reacted much like the man \"going fo
rth by black\" in this passage: according to the particular threat that he sense
d growing in the darkness, or according to the particular goal he wished to reac
h, he would have referred to the appropriate chapter of his book of the dead and
recited the necessary \"words of power.\" This in turn he would have accomplish
ed by searching for the appropriate \"vi- gnette\"-a picture of life beyond the
grave drawn on the papyrus, which) Inside the Coffin) 121)))
served as a kind of chapter-marking. 105 In this passage from the Wake, the corp
se consults the \"vignette\" of\" a ragingoos\" -the evocation of a rainbow sugg
esting that the sleeper is rising toward a visual dream-and begins to read the m
agical spell from the corresponding chapter, much as the soul of Nu, the steward
of the overseer of the seals, would have done:) The steward of the overseer of
the seals, Nu . . . saith: I rise up like Ra. . . . My heart, once brought low,
is now made strong. I am a spirit in heaven, and mighty upon earth. I fly like a
hawk, I cackle like the smen goose. . . I advance to the realm of the star-gods
. The doors of Maat are opened to me. . . . \"We will not allow thee to enter in
over us,\" say the bars of [the doors of Maat], \"unless thou tellest us our na
mes.\" [And I reply], \"Tongue of the place of Truth is your name.\" . . . The r
igh t lintel of this door saith: \"I will not allow thee to pass over me unless

thou tell est my name.\" [And I reply] \"Strengthener of the support ofMaat is t
hy name.\" . . .106) The first of these spells and the passage of the Wake that
quotes it illus- trate the principle underlying the many \"Chapters of Making th
e Transfor- mations\" found in books ofthe dead: whether he wished to escape fro
m dan- ger, rise toward the boat of the sun, or fly to the house of Osiris, the
prepared Egyptian found it advisable to include in his book of the dead chapters
whose recitation would enable him, once his mouth was opened, to change into a
hawk, a heron, a swallow, a serpent, a crocodile, or, finally, a Bennu bird (a p
hoenix). 107 Here, both as a hawk and a corncrake, the dead man flies to the Hou
se of Osiris, where he then draws upon another chapter of his Book of the Dead a
nd, so as not to antagonize the gods of night and dark- ness, utters a second sp
ell revealing his innocence and his familiarity with the underworld hidden in th
e body of Osiris. In the last line of the passage from the Wake quoted above (\"
My heart, my mother! My heart, my coming forth of darkness!\,") the mummified de
ad man acknowledges that he has advanced one more degree toward his resurrection
into new life: his mouth opened, he now becomes sensible of the heartbeat in hi
s body and of his imminent rebirth. lOB Although the passage is virtually identi
cal in contour and wording to the passages quoted from the Papyrus of Nu, \"th'o
sirian\" hero of the Wake un- dergoes a far less dramatic experience then his co
unterpart in the Egyptian document. Not actually turning into a hawk or approach
ing the house of Osiris, he becomes capable of dreaming. In the Book of the Dead
, the \"Opening of the Mouth\" enabled the dead man to rise from lethal absence
into an attentuated half-life which made possible the reading and reciting of) 1
charms that insured his resurrection; in Joyce's book of the dead, the \"open- i
ng of the mouth\" seems to occasion a comparably incremental movement toward res
urrection, by elevating its central figure from vacant sleep into a part of the
night where, because dreams are inextricable from language, he becomes capable o
f hallucinated vision and heq.ring. The passage from the Wake under our attentio
n, then, indeed signals a rebirth of sorts (\"My heart, my mother! My heart, my
coming forth of darkness!\,") for in the pro- cess of finding his \"mouth given
unto him,\" Joyce's central figure rises from \"Real Absence\" and inertia into
the kinds of \"infrarational\" thinking that Freud and his contemporaries explor
ed in their studies of dreams and hu- man infancy. And as recollectible dreams a
gain begin to occupy this sleep- ing man, Freud in turn valuably illuminates his
mind; for psychoanalysis has much to say about the symbolic meanings of birds,
flight, and levitation in dreams, and the dream into which HCE now passes bears
obscurely on snakes with evil intentions and volcanoes \"in erupting\" (494.8):)
-Apep and Uachet! Holy Snakes, chase me charley, Eva's got barley under her flu
- encies!\" (494.14-16)) \"Apep and Uachet\" are \"holy snakes\" who appear in m
any Egyptian books of the dead: Aapep is the black, evil serpent who threatens t
o devour Ra in clouds just before his emergence at dawn from the blackness of Am
enti; Uachet, beneficent \"lady of flame,\" is a serpentine personification of t
he northern sky at sunrise. 109 Since these two conflicted serpents push their p
hallic heads into \"the womb of Nut,\" the waters of the sky, at the same time t
hat Ra begins resurrectively to rise into the world amid clouds of fire and smok
e, in turn to give birth to a new day and to allow the resurrection of the sleep
er, these lines suggest how Joyce might have found in the Book of the Dead-in ad
dition to its sustained exploration of nothingness-forms of thought comparable t
o those underlying dreams. Here again, symbolic events that the Book of the Dead
locates in the dark other world of Amenti, twentieth-century thought would loca
te in the other world of sleep.llo In the slow resurrective process that culmina
tes in \"the Opening of the Mouth\" and the revival of perception, Joyce found t
he real plot of the Book of the Dead, the linearly progressive movement that det
ermined the place- ment of each of the variable chapters in each of its variants
. Not at all ap- parent, this plot lies concealed by diffusion in a highly allus
ive text which appears to bear more on the never-told, cyclically progressive st
ories of Ra and Osiris than on any real human being, and which also refers to ev

ery-) Inside the Coffin) 12 3)))

thing known in the circular Egyptian cosmos but the real life of the subject who
lies at its center, absent of all but his name-the Osiris Ani, the Osiris Nu. T
his plot, then, is also essentially that of the Wake. As the Book of the Dead un
folds, it reconstructs, from the \"eyewitless foggus\" of its absent cen- tral s
ubject, a succession of events of dramatic consequence supposed to befall his co
rpse between death and resurrection: its mouth opened, it breathed, it sensed th
e presence of its heart, it battled with inertia and with the linens that swaddl
ed it, it drifted its way through the kingdom of night fending off nightmarish v
isions, it passed through various levels of attenu- ated consciousness while lyi
ng inert in the body, it temporarily fended off thirst and hunger by subsisting
on the images of food and water, and so forth. As in the Wake, so in the Book of
the Dead: a reader who examined either of those books expecting to find a gripp
ing story would, as Doctor Johnson remarked of Clarissa, \"go and hang himself\"
; indeed, he might not even notice a linearly progressive account chronicling th
e heliotropic move- ment toward resurrection of a man lying inert in bed. Just b
efore the departed and absent subjects of these deadmen's books met the sun or a
woke into the fields of Sekhet Hetep, however, they did finally manage a sequenc
e of startling, active gestures. The soul of the deceased, having wandered throu
gh the nocturnal gloom of Amenti in estrangement from its deadened body, joined
its new \"spirit-body,\" which lay co-spatially within its corpse;1ll and \"the
double tet\" of this renewed body-its back- bone and its phallus-prepared to sta
nd up) upon the night of the things of the night of the making to stand up the d
ouble tet of the oversear of the seize who cometh from the mighty deep and on th
e night of making Horuse to crihumph over his enemy. . . . (3 28 .3 1 -35) 112)
Accoutered with a new body that rose up out of its old one, the dead man now ree
merged into active, physical vitality. According to \"The Chapter of Opening the
Tomb. . . and of Coming Forth by Day, and of Having Mastery over the Legs,\ Tha
t which was shut hath been opened by the command of the Eye of Horus [the rising
sun], which hath delivered me. Established are the beauties on the forehead of
Ra. My steps are long. My legs are lifted up. I have performed the journey, my m
em- bers are mighty and are sound. ll3) He lifted up his head from the pillow on
which it lay, according to \"The Chapter of the Pillow\":) 124) JOYCE'S BOOK OF
Awake out of thy sufferings, 0 thou who liest prostrate! Awake thou! Thy head is
the horizon. I lift thee up, 0 thou whose word is truth. 1l4) Finally, he moved
into the company of the morning sun, or else into the wheat fields of Sekhet He
tep. And as Egyptologists have ascertained, the Egyptians conceived the fertile
land of Sekhet Hetep in imagery reflective of the Nile delta on which the sun sh
own anew every morning, with three differences: the wheat grew taller there; peo
ple did not have to work as pain- fully; and no one who reached it died. ll5 The
resurrection into new life that the Egyptian corpse, the Osiris, was presumed t
o undergo at the end of its passage through Amenti, then, resembled an experienc
e that Joyce inter- preted simply as awakening:) Verily, I am here. I have come.
I behold thee. I have passed through the Tuat. I have seen Father Osiris. I hav
e scattered the gloom of night. I am his beloved one. I have come. . . .116) Whi
le this reading of Egyptian mortuary texts has treated the Book of the Dead larg
ely as if it were a version of Pinneaans Wake, this emphasis might easily be rev
ersed, so that the Wake might be read as a book of the dead. A peculiar transfor
mation would then occur: the hero of the Wake would turn out not to be sleeping
man, but a corpse, his departed spirit wandering in the other world. While some
of Joyce's readers have approached Pinneaans Wake in this way, finding in its \"
nekropolitan nights\" and in its incessant ref- erences to the heavens and hells
of earth's religions all manner of arcane revelation into the fabric of superna
ture, Joyce's own stated interest was al- ways in the human experience of night,
the evidence of the Wake itself sug- gesting that any prolonged scrutiny of eve

nts presumed to befall the stiff in- side the coffin inevitably opens into a med
itation on the state of sleep. The Book of the Dead, then, provided Joyce with a
richly inflected hieroglyphy adequate to the reconstruction of a calmly sleepin
g twentieth-century man embedded in \"the semi tary of Somnionia\": \"going fort
h by black\" and\" com- ing forth of darkness,\" he lies both hidden and apparen
t, himself and not himself, alive while dead to the world.) Inside the Coffin) 1
2 5)))
CHAPTER) F I V E) The Identity of the Dreamer) H ow TO FIND A GOOD TAILOR) At th
e center of Pinneaans Wake, in the darkest hours of its night, the story of a co
nflict between \"Kersse the Tailor and the Norwegian Captain\" occurs to our her
o (II. ii, 3II-30; d. U, 61). As Ellmann explains it, the story is based on one
that]oyce's father was fond of telling, \"of a hunchbacked Nor- wegian captain w
ho ordered a suit from a Dublin tailor. ]. H. Kerse of 34 Upper Sackville Street
. The finished suit did not fit him, and the captain berated the tailor for bein
g unable to sew, whereupon the irate tailor de- nounced him for being impossible
to fit\" (ff, 23). Though Ellmann goes on to note that the unpromising subject
\"became, by the time John Joyce had retold it, wonderful farce,\" its potential
for sheer buffoonery has never been satisfactorily explained in writing on the
Wake. It emerges, however, in a variant of the story according to which the capt
ain, returning to pick up the suit he ordered, flies into a torrent of invective
for the shoddy work- manship he discovers. The tailor looks at him with taxed p
rofessional calm, tugs at the garment, and says patiently, \"Well, you're not we
aring it right! If you just hold your arms like this [the arms twist up like mut
ant pretzels], if you hold your head like this [the head glues itself to the sho
ulder], and if you walk like this [the teller staggers off, doubled over and pig
eon-toed], it fits perfectly.\ 126)))
What all this has to do with \"a reconstruction of the nocturnal life\" will bec
ome evident if, \"by a commodius vicus of recirculation\" (3.2), we \"re- arrive
\" at the first page of Pinneaans Wake and the paragraph containing the phrase \
"in bed\"-now to note that the two sentences forming that paragraph are internal
ly linked by the garish homophony of the verbs \"retaled\" (3.17 [properly, \"re
tailed\"]) and \"entailed\" (3.19). Only a very craftless or a very canny writer
would ever have paired them so loudly. Through \"sound sense\" (109.15, 121. 15
), Joyce is calling attention to the essential relation of these two \"tailwords
\" (288.3 [\"detail,\" a third]), which derive together with \"tai- lors\" from
the Old French taillier (\"to shape by cutting,\" \"to determine the form of\.")
The common element linking all these terms has to do with the idea of \"tailori
ng\"-formal alteration-it, too, made thematic from begin- ning to end of Pinneaa
ns Wake, though most notably in the \"tail\" (324.5 [or \"retailored\" \"tale\"]
) of \" Kersse the Tailor,\" which lengthily engages the dark questions \"Who fi
ts?\" and \"Who is suitable?\" If the first sentence of that paragraph on the op
ening page tells us that a \"fall\" has happened \"in bed,\" it adds by way of v
erbal qualification that this fall has been \"retailed\" there- \"rendered piece
meal\" in this way of telling (\"retailing\,") and necessarily \"retailored\" to
suit the new and altered conditions of \"the Evening World.\" Now tailoring, in
any form, simply involves the formal alteration of in- vestments-articles of cl
othing-so that they come out fitting the body more comfortably. It works exactly
like sleep if, \"letting punplays pass to ernest\" (233.19-20), we take \"inves
tments\" or any of a whole array of related terms in the more abstract senses th
at have evolved from them. By day the hero of Pinneaans Wake, something of \"mis
fit,\" has a great many \"vested\" interests in \"the factionable world\" (285.2
6) represented in the map of Dublin, even though he sometime feels not \"cut out
for\" (248.17) and \"unsuited\" to its \"fashions,\" and though sometimes in tu
rn, \"fearing for his own misshapes\" (313.32), he finds its \"modes\" unsuitabl
e and \"unfit- ting\" (165.25, 127.4). Often they \"rub him the wrong way\" and
afflict him with \"wears and tears\" (II6.36). Survival in the \"fashionaping\"

Daily World (505.8), where being \"fascinating\" is indistinct from \"fashion-ap

ing,\" re- quires a kind of \"wearing\" \"uniformity,\" though nobody ever quite
fits the swell-looking \"uniform\" or lives up to his \"model\" (191.25; see 12
7.4). It also demands both a keeping up of \"appearances,\" with \"apparel,\" an
d the maintaining of \"habits\" that ultimately \"run him ragged\" and \"wear hi
m down.\" Clearly, a person so \"worn out\" needs to be \"redressed,\" and in bo
th senses of that word: on the one hand, he needs to be compensated for afflic-)
The Identity of the Dreamer) 12 7)))
tions, but on the other, he simply needs a new set of \"investments.\" Relief Ma
p B, then, shows \"the Wreck of the Ragamuffin\" (290.FS) whose sus- tained resi
dence in the Daily World of Map A has left him in \"Rags! Warns out\" (619.19)-t
he submerged reference to \"the Wreck of the Hesperus\" (306.26-27), here as thr
oughout the Wake, reminding us that the \"hole af- fair\" takes place after nigh
tfall (Gr. hesperos, \"evening\", d. 321.14-15, 387.20,557.6). In reconstructing
this \"wrecked ragamuffin's\" passage through a night, the Wake now issues a ge
neral invitation to \"Come to the ballay at the Tailors' Hall\" (510. 14)-where
the rhythm of the line and the paragraph it opens evokes a song entitled \"The N
ight of the Ragman's Ball\" (510.13-30 [AnnotationsJ) , and therefore suggests t
hat this night will entail the whole- sale \"formal alteration\" and \"redressin
g\" of a badly \"worn out\" \"misfit\": \"Name or redress him and we'll call it
a night\" (514.17; d. 232.20, 489.22-23). As it turns into his body in sleep, ac
cordingly, the \"old worold\" (441. 18- 19)-the \"worn\" out \"old\" \"worryld\"
(S9.1O)-is retailored, so to become \"whirrld\" (147.22) and to undergo a serie
s of \"formal alterations\" for which the Wake, fond of the prefix of renewal, g
enerates many terms. As it turns into his body in sleep, \"willed without wittin
g, whorled without aimed\" (272.4-5), it is \"recorporated\" (228.20), \"regroup
ed\" (129.12), \"recom- pounded\" (253.35), \"remassed\" (358.13), \"reformed\"
(361.4), \"rearrived\" at \"from scratch\" (3.5, 336.18), and at bottom \"recrea
ted\" so completely (606.7)-\"rereally\" (490.17)-that it comes out \"rassemblin
g\" the reas- sembled \"whorl\" shown in Relief Map B (373.14, 6.24), where our
hero's \"own fitther couldn't nose him\" (322.12-13 [\"fitter\"J). And especiall
y not \"his own father,\" whose \"model\" no son ever quite \"fits\": \"we drame
s our dreams tell Bappy returns. And Sein annews\" (277.17-18 [Fr. Sein, \"bo- s
om\"J); \"the same renew[s]\" (226.17). The relief map accordingly illustrates \
"the Benefits of Recreation\" in two senses of the latter word (306.22). Sleep,
as a \"solstitial pause for refleshmeant\" (82.IO), is in one sense simply a for
m of recreation or refreshment that enables our \"worn out\" hero to return to t
he world, after undergoing extensive \"formal alterations,\" \"finefeelingfit!\"
(431.1). But in another sense, because it entails a wholesale \"dismantling\" o
f the \"fabric\" of things, sleep re-creates the \"worold\" completely, retailor
- ing it precisely by \"re-fleshing\" it, in the form of the body (hence \"refle
sh- meant\" ) . I In Carlylean terms, \"sartor's risorted\" (314.17 [L. sartor r
esartus, \"the tai- lor's retailored\"])-at \"One Life One Suit (a men's wear st
ore)\" (63.16-17). And our worn-out hero, as \"besuits\" the \"ragged,\" is now
simply \"suitina himself.\" The orthodox way of putting this would be to say tha
t in \"sewing) 128) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
a dream together\" (28.7), he is getting his wishes fulfilled-\"nett sew?\" (312
.16). Tailoring, in Pinneaans Wake, operates much like the \"ingenious interweav
ing process\" that Freud calls the dreamwork (ID, 317); for that, too, simply in
volves the \"formal alteration\" of \"investments\"-now con- strued as psychic o
nes-so that they fit the body more comfortably. It re- sults in the production o
f that \"weaver's masterpiece,\" the dream (ID, 319), where, \"as the baffling y
arn sail[sJ in circles\" (320.35), everything is for- mally altered to suit \"ou
r talorman\" perfectly (see 375.34-35). By \"redressing\" him, the dreamwork ena
bles our hero to bid \"sew wrong\" (322.8 [and \"so 10ng\"J) to a world characte
rized by \"uniform matteroffact- ness\" (123. IO)-\"Love my label like myself\"

(579.18) -and also to \"curse the tailor\" who taught him to \"Respect the Unifo
rm\" (319.27, 3 2 0.2, 579.14 [hence \"Kersse the Tailor\"J). Since he harbors a
great deal of bottled-up animosity for this \"uniform,\" \"he'll want all his f
ury gutmurdherers to re- dress him\" (617.18-19); the wording here suggests that
it will take a whole army of \"fairy godmothers\" to spin out the \"baffling ya
rns\" necessary to re- dress the \"fury\" and \"murderousness\" rising from his
\"gut,\" but at the same time to keep those forces comfortably concealed. As the
Wake acknowl- edges in the play of these terms, the formal alterations that tra
nsform the Daily World of Map A into the Evening World of Map B make it difficul
t to know \"how comes ever a body in our taylorised world to selve out thishis\"
(356. IO-II [\"how can anybody ever solve out this thesis\"J)-where the line in
part calls attention to the puzzling nature of meaning in dreams, but also late
ntly reveals that HCE, the dreamer himself, inevitably \"selves out\" \"this, hi
s\" world, and again, as it \"suits\" his body (\"ever a body\.") Passages in Pi
nneaans Wake that allude to the story of \"Kersse the Tailor\" (23.10- I I, for
instance) operate in cipher to indicate that its hero is undergoing redress and
a change of investments at the moment in question (e.g., at22.30-23.IS). Now of
all the properties formally altered in this wholesale retailoring of the world,
one particularly bears note here: \"telling,\" since Joyce has re- tailored the
English \"retail\" into a neologistic \"retale\" on the first page of the book,
and since a running play on words blurs together the meanings of \"tailor\" and
\"teller\" throughout the Wake as a whole (d. 317.27, 319.8, 319.24). The extend
ed pun calls attention to problems of evident centrality in Pinneaans Wake by in
viting the simple question of how anyone can \"tell\" when he falls, or has fall
en, asleep. As memory will attest, one largely does not, because \"telling\" is
in every way antithetical to the condition of sleep. A Germanic equivalent of th
e Latinate derivative \"rationality\" \302\253 L. ratio, \"reckoning, calculatio
n\,") \"telling\" in even its most quotidian and feeble) The Identity of the Dre
amer) 12 9)))
forms implies the ability deliberatively to put two and two together. At root, \
"to tell\" simply means \"to count,\" as in \"telling\" time or in working as a
bank \"teller\"; but beyond that, it means \"to take account,\" recognitively, a
s in \"telling\" what is going on. Finally, in this escalating calculus, \"to te
ll\" is to provide a coherent \"account,\" as in \"telling a story.\" The man \"
tropped head\" at the Wake cannot \"tell\" in any of these senses. At the instan
t he \"falls to tail\" (285. I I)-suffers that \"knock out\" and \"falls to his
tail\"-he also \"fails to tell\" in every way possible. He cannot tell a story;
he cannot tell what is going on; and he cannot even tell himself apart from the
figures in his dreams, who in turn, after his example, can \"not rightly tell th
eir heels from their stools\" (476.31 [their heads from their toes]). The whole
matter of \"telling,\" therefore, is necessarily \"retailored\" and formally altered in Pinneaans Wake. One way of seeing how extensively these formal alterat
ions sweep through the Wake would be to examine very closely the syntax of that
paragraph on page three containing the verbs \"retaled\" and \"entailed. \"2 A b
roader per- spective on the matter would emerge from a consideration of the \"ta
il\" of Kersse the Tailor itself, which cannot be read as a narrative involving
dis- tinct characters, no matter how hard one tries, because the Wake's \"wornout ragamuffin\" simultaneously plays the parts of the misfit and of the dream-w
eaving \"talerman\" who suits himself (319.8). The episode recon- structs not a
discrete sequence of real-world encounters, but a general pro- cess of unconscio
us \"redress\" that reaches its climax in the murderous story of the shooting of
the Russian general (who is at once our hero's father and our hero himself in t
he role of a father under attack by two sons). As this example in turn suggests,
an ultimate way of seeing how radically the Wake's \"telling\" is retailored to
suit the conditions of the night would be to begin inquiring into the identity
of the man who sleeps at Pinneaans Wake, and all the more essentially because th
e question, \"Who is he?,\" is central to a coherent reading of the book (261.28
). The strangeness of this question emerges fully if we simply bend it back into

\"our own nighttime\": how does anyone sleepily \"knock[ed] out\" and unconscio
us \"tell\" who he is?) \"RIGHTING HIS NAME\ As will have become evident in pass
ing, and as many passages in the Wake make clear, both the \"nomen\" (L. \"name\
") of the \"noman\" who sleeps at Pin- neaans Wake (546.4) and \"the facts of hi
s nominigentilisation\" (31.33-34)) 13\302\260) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
constitute an ongoing problem in the book, rather than a dislodgeable point of i
nformation:) Here line the refrains of. Some vote him Vike, some mote him Mike,
some dub him Llyn and Phin while others hail him Lug Bug Dan Lop, Lex, Lax, Gunn
e or Guinn. Some apt him Arth, some bapt him Barth, CoIl, Noll, SoIl, Will, Weel
, Wall but I parse him Persse O'Reilly else he's called no name at all. (44.1014)) Given these mutually contradictive and ridiculous choices, and considering
that the ostensibly privileged name \"Persse O'Reilly\" fails to appear in \"The
Ballad of Persse O'Reilly\" at all, we should incline toward the culminative it
em in this catalogue (\"he's called no name at all\") -and all the more par- tic
ularly because the phrase \"here lie the refrains of\" reminds us that we are sh
aring the \"eyewitless foggus\" of somebody \"dead to the world\" in a dimen- si
on void of objects, whose \"trapped head\" contains only the \"remains\" of \"li
nes\" and \"refrains,\" and not alertly arranged and ordered letters. Of ne- ces
sity the man asleep at Pinneaans Wake \"remain[s] topantically anony- mas\" thro
ughout the whole book (Gr. to pan, \"the whole\") because he has \"trapped head\
" (34.2-6), concomitantly jettisoning the orderly stuff that ordinarily fills it
, not least of which is a knowledge of his own name. As Joyce remarked in an int
erview of 1936, \"there are, so to say, no individual people in the book-it is a
s in a dream, the style gliding and unreal as is the way in dreams. If one were
to speak of a person in the book, it would have to be of an old man, but even hi
s relationship to reality is doubtful. \"3 Anyone's \"blank memory\" of the nigh
t will attest that no one fully unconscious has a retrievable grip on his name,
social security number, fa- cial appearance as it most recently gelled in the mi
rror or the ego, or other such accoutrements of \"identity\" as enable him, in w
aking life, to know himself as familiarly as a third person. The Wake, according
ly, responds only with positive negativity to continually raised questions about
the \"in- dentity\" (49.36 [the negated \"identity\"]) of its sleeping protagon
ist, as is suggested by the parenthetical answer to the question \"Who was he to
whom? (O'Breen's not his name nor the brown one his maid)\" (56.32-33). By refe
rence to Thomas Moore's lyric \"Oh! Breathe not his name,\" the line indicates t
hat the \"naym\" of this \"nobodyatall\" (29.19, 73. 19)-where the \"nay\" negat
es the \"name\"-cannot be \"breathed\" at all, and for reasons lengthily spelled
out in Moore's poem. 4 The chain of patently absurd names cited above, then-its
elf only representative of the string of names that runs through the book as a w
hole-constitutes only one of many \"a long list (now feared in part lost) . . .
of all abusive names he was called\" (71.5-6),) The Identity of the Dreamer) 13
where these \"abusive names\" might be understood as the products of no- menclat
ural \"misuse\" and \"abuse\" both. Like many \"a word often abused\" in Pinneaa
ns Wake (149.34)-\"abuse\" included-they should not be taken at face value becau
se each of them shows our hero \"under the assumed name of Ignotus Loquor\" (263
.2-3 [L. ianotus loquor, \"I am talking about the unknown\"] ) . Though the thou
sands of variable names patched around the \"topanti- cally anonymas\" \"belowes
hero\" of the Wake serve ultimately to cancel one another out-\"In the name of
the former and of the latter and of their holocaust. Allmen\" (419.9- 10) -so to
emphasize his essential unnamability, they also serve the crucial purpose of ca
pturing him obliquely, in the manner of \"nicknames\" (32.18,46.1; 59.16, 98.27)
, \"bynames\" (29.31), \"agnomen[s]\" (30.3), \"moniker[s]\" (46.21), and \"assu
med names\" and \"illassumed names\" both (49.8,263.2; 86.12). They work associa
tively, that is, like the dream- work's condensed and \"composite structures,\"
to reveal underlying states and conflicts that befall \"this most unmentionables

t of men\" in his drift through the night (320,12-13).5 The nickname \"Timb\" or
\"Tomb\" (139.10 [\"Finnegan\"]), for instance, shows our hero laid out dead to
the world. While some may call him \"Gunne or Guinn\" (44.12), he is surely, as
a \"Gun- nar, of The Gunnings, Gund\" (596.15), \"Ganey, goney gone!\" (306.F2)
. As \"Finn,\" by contrast (\"some dub him Llyn and Phin\" [44. I I]), his \"spa
tiality\" (172.9 [\"speciality\"]) is the containment of space (hence the enclos
ure of \"Dublin\" in \"dub him Llyn\.") And since \"some apt him Arth\" (44.12),
an \"apt\" composite name might be \"Arser of the Rum Tipple\" (359.15-16), whi
ch designates neither \"Arthur of the Round Table\" exactly nor a \"blacked- out
\" \"rummy\" whose \"tippling\" has landed him \"on his ars\" either (514.34), b
ut their point of convergence, together with the sleeper's, in a once-and- futur
e figure who will \"rise afterfall\" (78.7).6 As the example of these particular
\"bynames\" and the Wake itself sug- gests, the trick to answering the excellen
t question posed and tackled by Adaline Glasheen in her Censuses-\"Who's Who Whe
n Everybody is Some- body Else?\"7-is simply to untangle, as in dream analysis,
the \"condensed\" and \"displaced\" figures that have been \"traduced by their c
omedy nominator to the loaferst terms\" (283.6-8). Beneath the whole of Pinneaan
s Wake, un- derlying all the \"samilikes\" and\" alteregoases\" and \"pseudoselv
es\" in the book (576.33), there lies only a singular \"comedy nominator,\" the
\"one stable somebody\" (107.30) whose nightlife generates the \"comic denominations,\" distorting (or \"traducing\") them in the process, but who is finally
the only real \"common denominator\" underlying them all. Given any name) 13 2)
in Pinneaans Wake, then, the reader should reduce it \"to the loaferst terms\"where the appearance of the book's omnipresent and tell-tale \"loafer\" in this
\"lowest\" suggests that such a reduction would best be accomplished simply by a
sking how the name reflects on its hero's \"lofetime\" (230.19 [nocturnal \"life
time\"]) . If, \"by a commodius vicus of recirculation,\" we \"rearrive\" at the
vicinity of the opening page containing the phrase \"in bed,\" all the strange
nominal evocations surrounding it now turn out to reveal a little more about the
constitution of \"Arser's\" \"knock[ed] out\" and \"tropped head\" at this part
icu- lar moment in the night. Like Humpty Dumpty (\"the fall,\" \"offwall\" \"hu
mp- tyhillhead,\" \"humself,\" \"prumptly,\" \"tumptytumtoes\,") he has fallen,
al- though asleep, so to enter a state of mind \"scrambled,\" \"addled,\" \"crac
ked,\" infantilely regressive, and elusive of capture in the King's English (47.
26), Like anyone rubbled \"after [the] humpteen dumpteen revivals\" of a life- t
ime's mornings (219.15 [who counts them?]), our hero has been \"eggspilled\" (23
0.5 [\"expelled\"]) from the wakeaday reality represented in Map A and transform
ed, from homme to \"homelette\" (59.29-32), into the scrambled \"eggshill\" (415
.9-10 [\"exile\"]) depicted in Relief Map B, where he lies \"em- bedded,\" a Fin
negan of sorts, in the night's \"seemetery\": Hombly, Dombly Sod We Awhile\" (41
5.14- 15). As \"a once wallstrait oldparr,\" comparably, \"to name no others, of
whom great things were expected in the fulmfilming de- partment\" (398.24-26),
our hero resembles the legendary \"Old Parr\" simply in being an \"old pa\" or p
ere (Fr. \"father\,") burdened with a \"scraggy isth- mus\" (3.5-6 [Gr. isthmos,
\"neck\"]) and a \"body you'd pity\" (381. 15), but also with desires difficult
of fulfillment in the day.s In the night, however, where this \"old pa's\" wish
es get furtively \"fulmfilmed,\" the term \"Old Parr\"-\"to name no others\"-in
a way \"names\" \"no others,\" but only the old man himself: since to be an \"Ol
d Parr\" would be any old man's dream, the term shows our hero wishfully dissolv
ing conflicts that arise from a waning virility. \"Reduced to the loaferst terms
,\" then, even particular \"nicknames\" like \"Humpty Dumpty\" and \"Old Parr\"
turn out to describe states of uncon- sciousness and unconscious conflict endure
d in the sleep ofthe book's heroic \"loafer\"-though in their self-eradicating c
ontradictiveness, again, they leave the Wake's \"knock[ed] out\" nobody \"called
no name at all.\" And to the essential question, \"Who is he?\" (261.28)-\"whoi
she whoishe whoishe?\" (499.3S-36)-there are two primary kinds of answer. For as
\"someone im- particular\" (602.7), our \"belowes hero\" is \"someone in partic

ular\" whom the night has rendered indistinct.) The Identity of the Dreamer) 133
e long noted, Joyce incessantly likens \"our mounding's mass,\" as depicted in R
elief Map B, to a vast \"dump\" (110.26), or \"DUNGMOUND\" (276.RI), or \"kikkin
midden\" (503.8) -where the Danish ar- chaeological term kikkenmidden (Eng. \"ki
tchen midden\") designates a heap of bones marking the site of a prehistoric dwe
lling, midden itself deriving from the Da. m\0379 dynae (\"dung hill\" or \"refu
se heap\.") \"A sort of heaps\" (596.18), \"our mounding's mass\" constitutes a
\"dump\" of this nature be- cause his rubbled and \"deafadumped\" body (590. I),
now dead to the world, marks the site of a past life (yesterday's, for instance
) and because matters deriving from his past, including letters, are buried insi
de of it. One way of discovering what lies \"in the heart of the orangeflavoured
mudmound\" (III,34)-the \"orange\" makes our hero a Protestant- would be to \"D
ia him in the rubsh!\" (26I.L2 [\"dig in the rubbish,\" or \"dig him in the ribs
\" and wake him up]). We might see the image of this \"dump\" particularized by
\"rearriving\" at the book's first page and the vicinity of the phrase \"in bed,
\" now to consider \"the great fall ofthe offwall\" that it describes (3.18-19).
Since the odd com- pound \"offwall\" evokes the German Abfall, the Danish-Norse
affald, the Dutch afval, and the English offal, all generally meaning \"refuse
or scraps,\" the paragraph that we have been examining might now be construed as
a dense trash heap compacted of things let fall: \"oranges. . . laid to rust up
on the green,\" a \"dumptied\" \"Humpty Dumpty\" (17.4), a badly contused Fin- n
egan, letters that may have become \"litters\" (17.28), and finally, contain- in
g them all, our \"scraphea ped\" hero himself (98. 17), a \"dustman\" of sorts (
59.16 [Br. \"garbage collector\"]). \"What a mnice old mness it all mnakes! A mi
ddenhide hoard of objects!\" (19.7-8 [and a \"midnight hoard of objects\" intern
alized]) . These details suggest in particular what the paragraph shows more gen
er- ally if considered as a formal whole. On the evident verbal surface, it read
s like a scrap heap of conceptually disconnected words, fragments, refer- ences,
and quotations: \"it's like a dream.\" For in the psychoanalytical ac- count of
dream formation, the manifest content of any dream is much like the manifest co
ntent of this paragraph, in being particled together of \"resi- due\"-\"theday's
residue\"-or, in Freud's German, Taaesreste, where the Ger- man Reste, literally
meaning \"remains\" or \"dregs,\" would figuratively give the dream the surface
structure of a mnemonic dump. Through its ongoing) 134) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DAR
reference to \"dumps\" and \"middens,\" in part, the Wake is concretely conveying the orthodox insight that dreams are compacted of immense networks of scraps
and fragments salvaged from the past. 9 Another way of reading Pinneaans Wake,
then, would be to see anyone section of it as a chaotic trash heap of mnemonic b
ric-a-brac, scraps, trivia, personal memories, and particles of information gath
ered from such places as the Encyclopaedia Britannica and Dublin's papers and lo
re. Rather than examining the \"infrarational\" connections that coherently link
these par- ticles of residue together in the \"Evening World,\" it would be pos
sible to trace them back to their sources in the Daily World, to see where they
came from and to infer things about \"the days when Head-in-Clouds walked the ea
rth\" (18.23-24 [as opposed to his nights, when he does not]). Studies of the Wa
ke that identify the \"facts\" constituting its manifest content do just this, a
nd they accordingly serve the important purpose of putting our hero's \"nightlif
e\" into a concrete, real-world context and milieu. The richness of these studie
s enables us to work backwards from the Wake, to establish a sense not of our he
ro's nightlife, but of his life in the day; and they allow us to begin seeing \"
this very pure nondescript\" as a Bloom-like \"ordinary man\" (64.30), \"somebod
y mentioned by name in his telephone directory\" (II8.12- 1 3) . Although we hav
e so far regarded \"Sir Somebody Something\" as a stupe- fied anyman (293.F2), a

n \"imparticular\" \"Here Comes Everybody\" (32.18- 19), the sheer density of ce

rtain repeated details and concerns allows us to know that he is a particular, r
eal Dubliner. The nature of these recurring concerns, moreover, enables us to se
e that most of what Joyce leaked out to his publicists and much of what the crit
icism has inferred is largely true. Our hero seems to be an older Protestant mal
e, of Scandinavian lineage, connected with the pubkeeping business somewhere in
the neighborhood of Chapelizod, who has a wife, a daughter, and two sons. Since
the subject of his dreams is not these people or places as objective entities, h
owever, but the more complex matter of his \"investments\" in them, a great deal
about his factual life in the Daily World is hard to reconstruct with any certa
inty. Pinneaans Wake offers less a factual \"family history\" than a \"family hi
s- trionic\" (230.29). What 'emerges from an examination of the details is the s
ense of someone as singularly unsingular as Leopold Bloom. As \"the herewaker of
our hame- fame\" rises from the vacuum of his sleep toward a reacquired knowled
ge of his \"real namesame\" in the last pages of the book (619.12-13), his spectacular lack of distinction becomes more and more evident (and notably in) The
Identity of the Dreamer) 135)))
III.iv). \"One of the two or three forefivest fellows a bloke could in holiday c
rowd encounter\" (596.15- 17), he could not stand out in a crowd if he tried. Re
peated indications suggest that he is \"a man of around fifty\" (506.34), roughl
y \"fiftytwo heirs of age\" (513.23), \"anything. . . between fiftyodd and fifty
even years of age\" (380.13-14) or, more elaborately:) a man in brown about town
. . . picking up ideas, of well over or about fiftysix or so, pithecoid proporti
ons [Eng., \"apelike\"], with perhops five foot eight, the us- ual X Y Z type. .
. not in the studbook by a long stortch . . . always trying to poor- chase mova
bles by hebdomedaries for to putt in a new house to loot [to let], ciga- rette i
n his holder,' with a good job and pension in Buinness's, what about our trip to
Normandy style conversation. . . seeking relief in alcohol and so on. . . . (44
3. 20 -444.2 )) Reference both to the draining activity of \"poorchase\" (\"purc
hase\") and to a \"hebdomadary\" (\"weekly\") salary earned in a \"business\" in
volving \"Guinness's\" (hence \"Buinness's\") tells us something about this man'
s in- come, as does reference to the \"movables\" that his harried \"poor chase\
" takes as its objects (\"movables,\" sl. for \"small objects of value, \" also
suggest the Fr. meubles, \"furniture\.") It is through countless details like th
ese that we gradually amass the sense of a life as heartwrenchingly drab as Bloo
m's, a life of dispiriting modern routine whose quotidian highlights seem to be:
) business, reading newspaper, smoking cigar, arranging tumblers on table, eatin
g meals, pleasure, etcetera, etcetera, pleasure, eating meals, arranging tumbler
s on table, smoking cigar, reading newspaper, business (127.20-23)) As the mirro
rlike structure of this little catalogue implies, the alpha and omega of the who
le arrangement is \"business,\" which brackets everything else so stolidly that
\"pleasure\" can only dissolve in a listless blur of ill- defined \"etceteras\"
somewhere in the middle of things. This happens be- cause when our hero does get
away from \"business, reading newspaper, et- cetera,\" \"pleasure\" takes singu
larly limited and unimaginative forms:) minerals, wash and brush up, local views
, juju toffee [a real treat!], comic and birthdays cards [on special days of the
year]; those were the days and he was their hero. (127.24-25)) Passages like th
ese evoke a quotidian tedium much of the sort that our hero himself foresees in
the late hours of the Wake, as he grows dimly con- scious of the imminence of an
other day-in-the-life of this quality and so sinks resolutely back into sleep:)
Retire to rest without first misturbing your nighbor, mankind of baffling descri
p- tions. Others are as tired of themselves as you are. Let each one learn to bo
re him- self. It is strictly requested that no cobsmoking, spitting, pubchat, wr
astle rounds, coarse courting, smut, etc, will take place amongst those hours so
devoted to re- pose. (585.34-586.3) These details also suggest why Joyce, rathe

r than writing another novel like Ulysses, sought in Pinneaans Wake, with a Prot
estant publican rather than a Jewish ad-canvasser as a hero, to provide an accou
nt of the \"alternate night- joys\" (357.18) that lavishly open in the unharness
ed imagination of this \"very pure nondescript\" and in the dreams through which
he is \"redressed.\" What he is unconscious of is precisely his own potential,
and the possibility that life could be so much more. The reader will notice that
each of the passages examined above contains a reference to liquor (\"Buinness'
s\,") to barkeeping and bottlewashing (\" ar- ranging tumblers on table\,") to p
ubs (\"pubchat\,") or to the sordid glory of the barroom (\"wrastle rounds, coar
se courting, smut, etc\.") These are only representative instances of details wh
ose continual recurrence compels us to see our hero as a \"large incorporate lic
ensed vintner, such as he is, from for- mer times\" (580.23-24 [like yesterday])
. Though the wishfully inflated terms here elevate him into a better businessman
than he seems to be, they inevitably suggest, together with an unending stream
of references to a bar- room ambience evoked through song fragments and gossip,
that our hero is a \"headboddylwatcher of the chempel of Isid\" (26.17 [\"head b
ottle-washer of Chapelizod\"]). All such references as these would constitute ve
stiges of \"the day's residue,\" too, allowing us to see the barroom as our hero
's sphere of operation. \"Arranging tumblers on tables\" is his life. One would
be hard pressed to find a page in Pinneaans Wake that did not name a variety of
kinds and brands of alcohol and in part because these items are our hero's occup
ational tools; alcohol in general is part of his days' residue. 1O But if, on th
e one hand, these references allow us to work back- wards from the manifest cont
ent of the text to draw inferences about \"the days when Head-in-Clouds walked t
he earth,\" meanings in dreams are \"overdetermined,\" so that these references
also operate symbolically, to help describe the nights when \"Head-in-Clouds\" j
ust lies there. Since alcohol has the power to \"black out\" and render him \"al
coh alcoho alcoherently\" \"ab- sintheminded\" (40.5, 464.17; see 380.7-382.26),
it invariably operates in the Wake as a cipher for the opiating powers of sleep
: \"poppypap's a passport out,\" but so are sleep and heavy drinking (25.5; d. 8
4.17-18,475.9-10). Be-) The Identity of the Dreamer) 137)))
cause alcohol does to the brain much what sleep does, blotting out ration- ality
and lifting inhibitions, the move \"From Miss Somer's nice dream back to Mad Wi
nthrop's delugium stramens\" (502.29-30 [\"midwinter's delirium tremens\"]) is a
n inevitable one. \"Arser of the Rumtipple,\" then, has \"boom- arpoorter on his
brain\" (327.33-34 [wishful delusions of Napoleonic gran- deur because of stron
g-spirited \"water on the brain\"]), and also \"a boodle full ofmaimeries\" in b
oth his \"boozum\" and his \"hoagshead\" (348.7,449.16, 15.31 [\"bottlefull\"]);
the reference here, to a \"Howth head\" with all the in- ternal properties of a
\"hogshead,\" invites us again to inspect the \"trapped head,\" of the figure s
hown \" evidently under the spell of liquor\" in the relief maps (43.16) and to
ask the question, sustained in the Wake,) -Wisha, is he boosed or what, alannah?
. . . -Or he's rehearsing somewan's funeral.) (477.5,9)) Since the person \"kno
ck[ed] out\" never knows what hit him, questions like this one, as far as he can
\"no,\" can have no answer: \"it may half been a missfired brick\" that \"conk[
ed] him\" out (5.26, 170.14), or perhaps \"he had had had o'gloriously a'lot too
much hanguest or hoshoe fine to drink\" (63.21-23 [Gael. thoise fion, \"fill of
wine\"; \"had had had\" yields\" 'had' one too many\"]). Alcohol, at any rate,
saturates]oyce's \"alcohoran\" (20.9-10) for an overdetermined variety of reason
s. So too do references to names of pubs and inns, which drift through our hero'
s \"nightlife\" because he is concerned about his work and anxious about the com
petitionY But at the same time, meanings in dreams being over- determined, many
of these pub-names also serve latent, sleep-descriptive functions. Etymologicall
y, an \"inn\" is a place where one is not \"out,\" and our \"innermost\" \"inner
man,\" (194.3, 248.32, 462.16) in the \"duskguise\" of \"Here Inkeeper,\" (376.1
0 [not \"innkeeper\"]), does a very good job of \"keep- ing in.\" As an \"innval
et\" (320.15), he is not simply a public servant (\"inn valet\,") but one asleep
in bed (hence \"invalid\.") \"Malthus is yet lukked in close\" throughout the W

ake (604.7), comparably, partly because this \"In- keeper's\" \"malthouse\" is c

losed for the night, but also because, simply by sleeping, he is practicing a fo
rm of birth control (hence \"Malthus\.") Pub names like \"The Old Sot's Hole\" (
41.32, 147.5), the \"Halfmoon and Seven Stars\" (59.1-2), the \"Blackamoor's Hea
d\" (59.2), and the \"Black and All Black\" (59.4) accordingly help to evoke the
blacked-out head of a benighted man who \"is not all there, and is all the more
himself since he is not so, being most of his time down at the Green Man\" (507
.3-4); and while this \"Green Man\" seems simply to name another pub, it also su
ggests that this) 13 8) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
man \"keeping in\" at \"the Mullingcan Inn\" (64.9), \"mulling\" as best as he \
"can,\" will rise from the dead in the morning (like \"the green man\" of folk10re).12 Attention to subliminal meanings like these, layered everywhere under t
he Wake's verbal surface, now leads us back into a consideration of our hero's \
"imparticularity\" in the night.) HCE) One of many passages in the Wake that cla
rifies our hero's\" Unmentionability\" (107.7) explains that) . . . there is sai
d to have been quondam (pfuit! pfuit!) some case of the kind im- plicating, it i
s interdum believed, a quidam (if he did not exist it would be neces- sary quoni
am to invent him) . . . who has remained topantically anonymos but. . . was, it
is stated. . . seemingly. . . tropped head. . . . (33.32-34.6)) These tangled wo
rds (note the six passive constructions) require some sort- ing out. They tell u
s that while the \"topantically anonymas\" man who sleeps at Pinneaans Wake is l
argely only \"a quidam\" (L. \"a certain unnamed person\") with a \"quondam\" id
entity-\"it used to be there\" when \"he was\" (L. quondam fuit) , but now it si
mply isn't-Joyce had to find a way of desig- nating the central presence of his
hero throughout the book; for \"if he did not exist (and it is not at all clear
that anyone \"dead to the world\" does) it would be necessary quoniam to invent
him\" (L. quoniam, \"because,\" \"for this reason\" ). While\" allauding to him
by all the licknames in the litany,\" then (234.21-22), Joyce draws on the inven
tive \"sigla H.C.E.\" (32.14) less to \"allude to\" than to identify the \"one s
table somebody\" who sleeps (107.30), unnamable because unconscious, at Pinneaan
s Wake. Operating between lines (481.1-3), within words (421.23 [\"HeCitEncy\"])
, in reverse order (623.9 [\"ech?\"]), but primarily in acrostic formations, the
\"normative letters\" HCE (32.18) permeate Pinneaans Wake, moving through the b
ody of the text with supple protoplasticity, so to convey the continuous presenc
e of a specific \"Homo Capite Erectus\" (101. 12- 13) within whom the \"hole aff
air\" unfolds. \"A family all to himself\" (392.23-24), \"he is ee and no counte
r he who will be ultimendly respunchable for the hubbub caused in Edenborough\"
(29.34-36 [as for everything else in the book]). Like \"Punch,\" in other words,
\"all the charictures in the drame\" (302.31-32) are mere pup- pets invisibly c
ontrolled by HCE-a \"puppetry producer\" of sorts (219.6- 8) -who alone is \"res
ponsible\" for their motions (hence \"respunchable\") .) The Identity of the Dre
amer) 139)))
Only interior to \"the heavenly one with his constellatria and his emana- tions\
" (157.18- 19) do all other manifestly differentiated \"characters\" like ALP, S
hem, Shaun, and Issy appear, as \"constellated\" products of his dream- ing mind
, in the manner of the Kabbalah's sephirotic emanations (see 29.13-15, 261. 2 32 4). Consider, for example, \"Shaun the Post,\" who seems to attain the status
of an independent character in the third book of Pinneaans Wake and whom the cr
iticism customarily treats as a discrete agent. Not simply Joyce's re- mark that
\"there are no characters\" in Pinneaans Wake, but countless details in Book II
I itself reveal that Shaun's evidently \"uniform\" appearance is really \"fumifo
rm\" (413.31 [L. \"made of vapor\"]) ; that he \"weigh[s] nought\" (407.5), like
any phantom; and that his \"autobiography,\" a nonexistent \"blank,\" is \"hand
led. . . in the ligname of Mr van Howten\" (413.30-414.3). Since this \"ligname\
" designates a body dead to the world (Ger. Leichnam, \"corpse\, and since the \
"nickname\" \"van Howten\" moves us into \"Howth\" (\"HEAD\, the details show th

at Shaun is only a figment in HCE's \"tropped head,\" repre- sentative of a lett

er-carrying and letter-conscious state of mind into which the dreamer ascends as
he moves toward wakening. 13 The notoriously strange \"barrel\" in which Shaun
appears (\"I am as plain as portable enveloped\" \"care of one of Mooseyeare Goo
nness's registered andouterthus barrels\" [414.10-12]) is therefore simply a cip
her for the imperceived and \"unknown body\" of HCE (96.29), within which the \"
fumiform[ed]\" Shaun and all kinds of letters are in fact \"enveloped\": etymolo
gically, the English word \"body\" derives from the Old English bodia (\"a cask\
" or barrel) and is cog- nate with the Middle Low German boddia (\"a tub for bre
wing\") because then as now the body was perceived as a container of better thin
gs (\"spir- its\.") While Shaun's barrel seems to be one of \"Msr. Guinness's,\"
then, the spelling \"Mooseyeare Goonness's\" also suggests that beneath all app
ear- ances, Shaun is simply a diffuse aggregate of \"spirits,\" a being with all
the palpability of a fairy tale figure (hence \"Mother Goose\,") who appears in
- side of HCE. It is impossible, of course, not to wonder why Joyce chose \"the
sigla H.C.E.\" to designate his hero, although these \"initials majuscule,\" str
ictly speaking, mean nothing and are \"meant to be baffling\" (119.16-17). In th
e form explored by Roland McHugh, the \"chrismon trilithon sign rrJ , fi- nally
called after some his hes hecitency Hec\" (119.17-18), stands outside of all fam
iliar alphabetic systems; 14 while its acrostic equivalent, \"the sigla H,C.E.,\
" \"means\" something independently of phonetic systems. The two formations cons
titute, like the letter M in Beckett's Unnamable trilogy, a) 140) JOYCE'S BOOK O
sign without signification, a human formation closed to any referential ex- teri
or, and so come to carry, in Pinneaans Wake, the weight of the Biblical Tetragra
mmaton, the unnamable name, in evoking only \"a rude breathing on the void of to
be\" (100.27), \"the allimmanence of that which Itself is Itself alone\" (394.3
2-33 [\"rude breathing\" suggests the formative breath or \"spirit\" of YHWH in
Genesis]) . Still, since the characters in the acrostic are Romanic, and since J
oyce was hardly a practitioner of the arbitrary, it seems inevitable that a rati
onale should underlie his choice of the trigrammaton HCE. The configuration clea
rly works better than HIM or lAM, either of which would hardly have been obscure
enough to conform to anyone's sense of sleep (see, however, 166.18- 19). But wh
y HCE? Readers who have engaged this question seem to have arrived at a sketchy
consensus, commonly detecting somewhere beneath HCE an evocation of the words of
consecration in the Roman Catholic Mass (incidentally the longest wake on recor
d) : Hoc est enim corpus meum (\"For this is my body\") .15 The reading is diffi
cult to disregard once it is pointed out because it enables HCE always to verge
on signifying, without ever fully doing so, hoc corpus est-\"This is the body,\"
stripped of pronominal definiteness and caught at the transubstantiative moment
in which \"word is made flesh,\" and pri- marily only flesh. It enables HCE to
mean nothing, in other words, in much the same way that the body \"means\" nothi
ng. Whether or not one buys a reading this definitive is finally not crucial bec
ause its purport is every- where evident anyway. Sleep is absolutely transubstan
tiative in force: turn- ing the whole world into the body of the sleeper, it inc
arnates everything (see relief map). If the text periodically warns us that \"it
is a slopperish matter, given the wet and low visibility,\" \"to idendifine the
individuone\" of which it treats (51.3-6 [\"to identify\" and \"define\" the \"
one\" \"individual\"]), it adds by way of parenthetical explanation that the who
le business is \"slop- perish\" because the \"sword of certainty which would ind
entifide the body never falls\" (51.5-6). The wording here, for all its cultivat
ed vagueness plainly \"identifies the body,\" even as it \"hides\" it (hence \"i
ndentifide\,") and in much the same way that the cipher HCE simultaneously \"ide
ntifies\" and \"hides\" the Wake's central figure, \"the presence (of a curpse)\
" (224.5-6). While \"allauding to him by all the licknames in the litany,\" then
(234.21- 22)-by all such \"nicknames\" as \"Finnegan,\" \"Arser,\" \"Old Parr,\
" \"etcicero\" (IS2.1O)-Joyce draws on \"the sigla H.C.E.\" less to \"allude to\
" than to \"in- dentifide\" the \"Great Sommboddy\" lying \"dead to the world\"

at the Wake (415.17 [Fr. somme, \"sleep\"]), and to identify it largely as some\
" body\"; for underlying all the Wake's allusive \"licknames\" one finds only a
body \"let) The Identity of the Dreamer) 141)))
drop as a doomsbody drops\" (289.15): these \"licknames,\" too, \"indentifide\"
the Ger. Leichnam (\"corpse\. As HCE, then, the \"belowes hero\" of Pinneaans Wa
ke is not at all a \"char- acter,\" possessed ofreified properties like \"person
ality,\" \"individuality,\" and \"identity,\" but a body, inside of which, \"tra
pped head,\" there is no con- sciousness of anything much outside, except as it
has been cargoed and re- formed in memory; on top of and throughout which, in wa
kefulness, the man-made constructs of character, personality, individuality, ide
ntity, and ego have been layered. This is the case not simply because all of the
se con- cepts and terms are arbitrary constructions entertained in consciousness
to describe conscious agents, but also because they are parochially modern and
narrow fictions, and not transhistorical or innate human properties. Developed i
n that period of historical upheaval that saw, with the rise of the novel, the e
volution of a sense of selfhood compatible with the urgencies of capitalism, ter
ms like \"character\" and \"personality\" harness the human into kinds of self-\
"possession\"-ones heavily invested with a sense of the \"proper\" and \"proprie
ty,\" of \"ownership\" and one's \"own\"-that ensure adaptive survival within a
system structured on the values of \"possession\" and \"property.\"16 The artifi
ciality of these \"fibfib fabrications\" (36.34) en- ables us to see from yet an
other perspective why Joyce would have spoken of Pinneaans Wake as a work breaki
ng with a certain form of Cartesianism. It is not simply that no one asleep has
the least consciousness of objective re- ality, or of the manifold objects of wh
ich it is constituted. In a world void of objects, \"if I may break the subject
gently\" (165,30 [and this last time in a philosophical sense]), we also find th
e complementary property of the \"sub- ject,\" in whose eyewitness focus those o
bjects congeal, \"disselving\" (608.5 [\"dissolving\"]). Insofar as the Wake has
a psychological \"subject,\" that \"sopjack\" is simply \"an unknown body\" (96
.29). If, then, we \"rearrive\" at the opening page of the book, we might see th
at \"Howth Castle and Environs\" (3.3)-an odd locution, when all is said and don
e-does not straightforwardly designate \"Dublin,\" but Dublin as it has been tra
nsubstantiated and incarnated inside the all-absorbing cipher HCE; or, in Freudi
an terms, Dublin as it has been introjected and incor- porated; or, in Joycean t
erms, Dublin as it has been swallowed \"schlook, schlice and goodridhirring\" (7
.18- 19 [\"hook, line, and sinker\"]), interior to a body that has \"disselv[ed]
\" under \"the Helpless Corpses Enactment\" of sleep into the elements of \"hall
ucination, cauchman, ectoplasm\" (423.31, 133.24). If the first two of these ele
ments evoke the familiar province of the dream and the nightmare (Fr. cauchemar)
, the last evokes only the less ac-) 142) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
cessible eventfulnesses passed out in a body fallen \"under heaviest corpsus exe
mption\" and submitted to the \"changed endocrine history\" of night (362.17, 13
6.28): \"ectoplasm,\" in the discourse of spiritualism, is the \"no- matter\" th
at forms the bodies of ghosts; in embryology, it is the primal matter from which
, \"later on life,\" all surfaces of the body that negotiate contact with the ex
ternal world-sensory organs, skin, brain, \"brainskin\" (S6s.13)-eventually evol
ve. As a phrase, then, \"Howth Castle and En- virons\" merely accomplishes in sm
all what that paragraph at the bottom of page three does more elaborately. Like
every other construction containing \"the sigla H.C.E.,\" it shows our hero \"hi
ding the crumbends of his enor- mousness\" \"to the hidmost coignings of the ear
th\" (102.6, u8.36-U9. I); for concealed beneath every manifest appearance in th
e Wake's nocturnal uni- verse (\"hidmost\") is the unconscious body of its sleep
er, \"himself in the flesh\" (79.2), within whose \"cremains\" (hence \"crumbend
s\") all landscapes hallucinatorily or ectoplastically arise. These consideratio
ns will enable us to begin filling in the vast \"blank memory\" we all have of t
he night by allowing us to see that what must take place in parts of sleep void

of dreams is the body itself, which has to be there in the \"Real Absence\" of e
verything else for one \"to be continued.\" This in turn will suggest why the op
ening pages of Pinneaans Wake will con- form, as \"representation,\" to anyone's
experience of the night, though not to a conventionally conceived dream. Since
the content of our \"knock[ed] out\" hero's \"trapped head\" here is largely \"h
is own body\" (18S.36)-\"an un- known body\" as dead to the world as Finnegan'swhat is ultimately being represented is less a dream than the fertile ground of
dreams; and if in wake- fulness HCE \"has\" a body, in the night he simply \"is\
" one. Pinneaans Wake, in other words, is a representation of a human body. This
is only what we might expect of a work entitled the Wake, where, as at all wake
s, the body is the life of the party. Pinneaans Wake now becomes a \"vivIe\" of
sorts (UO,17), a form of \"secret stripture\" whose subject is \"the supreme imp
or- tance . . . of physical life\" (293.F2, 35.22-23). Ten years before Pinneaan
s Wake was published, in that collection of essays entitled Our Exaamination, fo
r which Joyce claimed responsibility, Marcel Brion spoke of Work in Proaress, pr
edicta bly enough, as an enterprise seeking to convey \"a reality true and whole
in itself,\" \"obey[ing] its own laws and appear[ing] to be liberated from the
customary physical restraints.\" But he added:) I imagine that [Joyce] could wri
te an unprecedented book composed of the simple interior physical existence, of
a man, without anecdotes, without supernumeraries,) The Identity of the Dreamer)
with only the circulation of the blood and the lymph, the race of the nervous ex
cita- tions towards the centres, the twisting of emotion and thought through the
cells. 17) Ten years later, presumably, Joyce had realized what in 1929 lay yet
undone. A number of gathering energies in Joyce's literary career make it plaus
ible that the Wake should move toward this end-not least the evidence of Ulys- s
es, which ends were Pinneaans Wake merely begins, inside a human body on the ver
ge of sleep; and whose real structure (retrospectively elicited as Joyce revised
and drew up the Gilbert-Linati schemata) turned out to be that of the human bod
y, an organism Bloom-like in its adaptive energies, rather than an organization
foreplanned. The body is, to some ways of thinking, a Catholic prepossession-the
\"cloacal obsession\" of H. G. Wells's phrase- though by the time Joyce had pas
sed through Ulysses into Pinneaans Wake he had found it as catholic in its under
structuring impingements on the real as had Freud (\"One life is all. One body.
Do. But do\" [U, 202J). If by 1937 Joyce had taken to demeaning Ulysses as \"a l
ittle prelude to WIP [Work in Proa- ressJ\"-and in some sense, rightly-he clarif
ied the preludic relation of his \"day book\" to his \"night book\" by calling U
lysses \"more an epic of the body than of the human spirit,\" going on to observ
e impatiently that \"for too long were the stars studied and man's insides negle
cted. An eclipse of the sun could be predicted many centuries before anyone knew
which way the blood circulated in our own bodies.\" 18 Both the context in whic
h Joyce made these remarks, and his tell-tale reference to an \"eclipse of the s
un\"- one way of saying \"night\"-lets us know that he was explaining, obliquely
as always, Pinneaans Wake. Already one can see why the English word \"body,\" u
nlike the enveloping signifier \"HCE,\" is hardly an adequate term for the \"one
continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded\" through \"all. . . moodmo
ulded cycle- wheeling history,\" within which Pinneaans Wake takes place (185.36
- 186.2). For this is not the body taken literally, or the body as we in any way
consciously bring it to mind, in the process converting it into exactly what it
is not (mind). It is above all not the body construed as an object-a thing thro
ugh whose instrumentality a headier, Britannica-reading subject wedged in somewh
ere behind the eyes and between the ears can look down on the paltry \"tumptytum
toes\" to which it is attached and comprehend its relation to them by seeing the
m visibly \"out there,\" in outer space, on a categorical parity with his shoes
and the furniture. No, \"(the best was still there if the torso was gone)\" (291
. 14- 15) .19 Nor is this the organic body of romantic ide- ologies; for as both
a reading of The New Science and close study of \"gradual) 144) JOYCE'S BOOK OF

morphological changes in our body politic\" will show (165.26-27), HCE's is the
\"body politic\" of \"someone imparticular\" (602.7), a body instilled with disc
rete laws by parents localized in a real historical situation and disci- plined
into poli sh, poli teness, and other such self- pol icing laws as are en- trench
ed in the \"Hoved poli tymester\" of the head to insure its survival in the poli
s (324.20 [the underlined words are etymologically related]). The \"local busyb
ody\" lying at the center of the Wake, then (438.16), has affinities with the bo
dy as treated in Foucault, in being \"an effect of power,\" an \"institution\" h
umanly made and organized by subjection to extended disciplinary practices, with
in which a \"micropolitics\" is immanent. And it certainly has affinities with t
he body as treated by Freud, the body con- ceived as a field of emotions, attitu
des, and symptomatic knots susceptible to discursive unravelling, whose structur
es unfold in dreams and whose for- mation is the story of a life held taut in un
conscious conflicts of \"wills gen wonts\" (4.1). The body lying dead to the wor
ld at the Wake is the form out- side of which nothing known to humanity ever hap
pens and inside of which everything ordinarily set apart as external in fact onl
y ever comes to life, in the form of sensationalistic impressions, memories, sta
mps, welts, and symptoms. Above all, this \"unknown body\" has affinities with t
he bodies of Vico's earth-founding giants, of which all other things are evolved
forms. What is true of the boozy, symposial crowd gathered at \"Finnegan's Wake
\" holds equally true of much of the commentary on Pinneaans Wake and of a plato
nically prepossessed Western culture generally: \"they just spirits a body away\
" (289.F2); or, more conspiratorially, \"( . . , we purposely say nothing of the
stiff, both parties having an interest in the spirits)\" (82.8-9). That so litt
le has been said about the stiff at the Wake is only one sign of the unconscious
ness to which consciousness repressively relegates the body;20 but the oversight
affects as well much commentary on dreams. Freud's in- sistence on the sexual g
rounding of dreams might well be regarded, in this ]oycean light, as a determina
tion not to see dreams foliating out of anything other than the living body whic
h is the site of their origination and their driving cause. Dreams only hold out
the manifest illusion of taking place, for instance, in Dublin or in any other
locale that one might investigate \"out there,\" In fact, they take place in sle
ep, in bed, inside of and because of the body of the dreamer, By putting us \"ba
ck in the flesh\" (67.5) the Wake returns us to \"some precise hour which we sha
ll again agree to call absolute zero or the babbling pumpt of plat in ism\" (164
.9-II). All things in the Wake start here, \"in the flesh,\ The Identity of the
Dreamer) 145)))
CHAPTER) S I X) Nocturnal Geoaraphy: How to Take \"Polar Bearinas\ FINN) Since \
"Finnegan,\" by associative \"sound sense\" (109.15), modulates through \"Finnag
ain\" into \"Finn, again\" (5.10, 628.14), and since Joyce erratically conceived
of the Wake as \"the dream of old Finn lying in death beside the river Liffey\"
U], 544), we might momentarily regard the man lying \"dead to the world\" at th
e Wake as the \"sleeping giant,\" \"Finn MacCool\" (540.17, 139.14), although th
is is a \"goodridhirring\" too. \"Finn\" is another cipher, telling us that the
\"magnificent brut\" (60.26) shown \"outlined aslumbered\" in the \"relief map\"
has entered a universe of radically strange spatialities. 1 As \"Mr Makeall Gon
e\" (220.24), our hero operates like a \"vacuum cleaner\" (309.21, 362.25-26, 36
4.33-34): as soon as he falls asleep and \"makes all gone,\" the entire earth ge
ts swept \"off the face of the erse\" (178.6-7, 50.8- 12). Through this process
of \"subtractional betterment\" (150.33-34), he is \"reassured by ratio that the
cube of [his] volumes is to the surfaces of their subjects as the sphericity of
these globes. . . is to the feracity of Fairynelly's vacuum\" (151.1-7). In oth
er words, as the heady glue that holds it all to- gether dissolves in sleep's va
cuum (\"subjects,\" capable of \"ratio\" and \"ra- tionality\,") all geometrical
ly constructed space disintegrates too (\"cubes, \"volumes,\" \"surfaces,\" \"sp
heres,\" \"globes\.") As space vanishes, our hero passes out of dimension into a

n aspatial \"nolandsland\" situated \"In No-) 146) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
where,\" \"By Nowhere\" (391.15, 175.7,9). \"Where are we at all? and when- abou
ts in the name of space?\" (558.33), Anyone consulting his own \"blank memory\"
of the night will recall that when bed, walls, and \"room whorled\" away and van
ished in sleep, a dimen- sionless \"worldroom beyond the roomwhorld\" opened up
(100.29), there to reveal \"the canonicity of his existence as a tesseract\" (10
0.34-35). Since \"a tesseract is a four-dimensional hypercube that cannot be gra
phically repre- sented in three-dimensional space,\" the phrase advises us that
the Wake, be- cause sleep does, necessarily takes place in a spatiality that has
little in common with the three dimensions everywhere evident in the masonry of
the Daily World. 2 Sustained parts of the book unfold in the \"fourdimman- sion
s\" of a \"newwhere\" (367.27, 155.12; 467.23) whose \"space-element\" is one of
\"Length Withought Breath, of him, a chump of the evums\" (164.33, 261. 13-14).
All these measurements are quite precise: \"length without breadth\" evokes a \
"no placelike\" dimension infinite in extension but only ideal in form (609.2);
\"withought\" is a cipher for unconsciousness (\"with- out thought\;") \"breath\
" limns out the interior of the body; and HCE desig- nates the book's omnipresen
t hero, a brainless \"chump of the evening,\" but for that reason, too, \"a cham
p of the aevum\" (L. \"eternity\.3 Sleep erases the boundaries by which, in wake
fulness, we distinguish OUf- selves from the alien immensity of the surrounding
world and set ourselves apart from it, as we were taught, in worried little subj
ect-object relations. In sleep, \"we're been carried away. Beyond bournes and bo
wers\" (379.35). \"Yourfeats[andyourfeet] end enormous, your volumes immense\" (
419.5). And as boundaries dissolve and all perceived externals vanish, sleep tra
nslocates \"Allspace in a Notshall\" (455.29 [\"nutshell\"])-even as it robs one
of vol i- tion (\"not shall\.") Or again, it relocates\" Omnitudes in a Knutsch
edell\" (276.L2), where that \"nutshell\" now resolves into the bonier, slicker
Dutch schedel (\"skull\.") \"Due to a collupsus of his back promises\" (5.27 [\"
back premises\"]), aUf hero becomes a \"colossus\" as soon as he \"collapses\" a
nd- \"pftjschute\" (3.19)-lands \"knock[ed] out\" \"on the flounder of his bulk\
" (6.31 [\"the flat of his back\"]). We \"behold of him as behemoth for he is no
ewhemoe. Finiche!\" (7.14- 15). With ephemeral instantaneity (\"as be he moth\,"
) he suddenly falls down \"dead to the world,\" \"finished\" (\"Finiche\ and \"n
ailed to the spot\" (Fr. fiche); but at the same time, by \"dropping asleep some
part in nonland\" (403.18), he falls out of dimension and spills into infinity,
a \"behemoth\" \"divested of care\" (Fr. jJ s'en fiche). Like anyone, then, the
hero of Pinneaans Wake is indeed a \"sleeping giant,\" though not a waking one-a
nd a giant, moreover, in no pedestrian) Nocturnal Geoaraphy) 147)))
or determinate sense. Viewed from his own \"eyewitless foggus,\" by contrast to
runts like Finn MacCool, the man who sleeps at Pinneaans Wake is so big that not
hing in space exists outside of him. He fills any \"landshape\" in which he turn
s up because all such \"lambskip[s]\" (502.36) -\"landscapes\" seen while \"wool
s aatherina\" (3S3.33)-are only his dreams and really lie inside of and fill him
. Night bountifully redistributes \"the fat of the land to Guygas\" (494.23 [Gr.
aiaas, \"giant\"]), though the \"fat\" and the \"guy\" imma- nent in this \"Guy
gas\" reveal beneath the giant form an \"ordinary man\" (64.30): \"finight mens
midinfinite true\" (505.24-25 [\"finite man\" with \"finite mens\"-L. \"mind\"-m
oved by \"night\" into the \"infinite\"]). \"From the hold of [his] capt in alti
tude till the mortification that's [his] fate,\" everything in Pinneaans Wake ta
kes place inside of this \"sleeping giant\" (540.17- 18), whose formal boundarie
s will by now be clear: \"hold\" and \"capt\" evoke the ubiquitous \"Howth\" hea
d (L. caput), while the \"mortified feet\" and deadly \"fate\" remind us that, l
ike \"Finnagain,\" he \"bit the dust at the foot of the poll\" (580.10-11 [Eng.
poll, \"head\"]). By day, the hero of Pinneaans Wake inhabits the world represen
ted in Map A, of Dublin, where he and his sinking \"grocery business\" are such
small and negligibly ephemeral concerns as to escape all cartographic and much p

ublic interest. But as sleep turns him into a \"Bygmester\" (4. 18)-or \"big- ma
ster\" (624. II) -his body opens out \"in the broadest way immarginable\" (4.19)
, spilling out \"in all dimensions\" and \"in all fathom of space\" (498.28, 394
.10). If, \"in the days when Head-in-Clouds walked the earth\" (18.23-24), he wa
s a nobody, in his nights, when he just lies there, he fills immensity, his \"He
ad\" in the \"Clouds\" for being both heavily befogged and wholly lost to sight,
\"his extremeties extremely so\" (74.15). As \"allspace\" relocates itself insi
de his body, the world reorganizes itself in the image of his \"grossman's bigne
ss\" (565.22 [Ger. aross, \"vast\"]), not to mention his sleazier \"grossery bas
eness\" (367.2 [see relief map]). In reading of \"this preeminent giant,\" then
(S04.ls)-\"Promiscuous Omebound\" (S60.1)-readers of the Wake must think BIG and
\"immengine\" (337,20 [\"imagine,\" \"immense\"]). Construed as \"the book ofOo
ublendsJined\" (20.15-16 [\"Dublin's giant\"]), the Wake now requires not simply
\"Belief in Giants\" (306,16-17), but also some practice in reading \"Biggersti
ff\" letters (413.29); as opposed to a Swiftian \"Bickerstaff,\" a \"bigger stif
f\" than is easy to envision generates and contains them all. Various ciphers mo
dulated with supple variability throughout \"the Book of Doublends Jined\" serve
to remind a reader of its sleeper's periodically absolute \"loss of bearings\"
in space (576.34-35). Gran- diose and \"most unenglish\" (160.22) articulations
on the other of \"Fe fa) 148) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
fom!\" (11.7) and \"Finfoefum\" (7.9-10) recur with \"fierce force fuming\" insistence (608.31) to show him drifting through the night \"without links, withou
t impediments, with gygantogyres, with freeflawforms\" (596.23- 24). As a \"rude
rule of fumb\" (283.20), these terms indicate that \"his im- mensesness\" is \"
loose at large and (Oh baby!) might be anywhere\" (241. II, 99.6-7) -just as tha
t interjected \"baby!\" reminds us that sleep regressively returns him to the co
ndition of \"first infancy\" (22.1), when also, \"fum in his mow\" (596.6 [and \
"thumb in his mouth\"J), he had \"not yet\" (3.10), \"not yet\" (3.11), shrunk t
hrough letters into the determinate limitations of pa- triarchal space: \"Ba be
bi bo bum\" (284.L3).4 The names of giants, too, often underwritten with little
descriptions of sleep, show the Wake's \"Immensipater\" (342.26) emancipating hi
mself from the constraints both of formally perceived space and of the patriarch
al order (\"immense pater\") through which it genetically organizes itself in th
e head. As \"Wassaily Booslaeugh\" (5.5-6), for instance, our sleeping giant far
outdwarfs the Russian giant \"Vasily Buslaev\" because, \"knock[edJ out\" and \
"blacked out\" as well, he is laughably void of any sense of his \"beerings\" in
space at all (321.13 [\"wassail,\" \"boose,\" \"laugh\"J). As \"Finnfinn the Fa
ineant,\" comparably (254.20 [not \"Finn the Fenian\"J), he is an immense and sl
uggish \"do-nothing\" (Fr. faineant, \"lazy idler\,") a \"roi des faineants\" (1
31.9). And as \"MacGhoul\" (354.6), \"the dead giant manalive\" is simply, like
\"Finnagain,\" dead to the world (500.1-2) : \"Finnk. Fime. Fudd?\" (499.18). Th
e evocation here of Finn (\"Finnk\") and of \"Fe Fa Fum\" show our hero lying \"
just in time as if he fell out of space\" (462.31), while the echo of Fin- negan
's \"think I'm dead?\" notifies us of \"the christlikeness of the big clean- min
ded giant\" (33.29 [his only really \"christlike\" attribute is a tendency to un
dergo a resurrection of the body after having \"tropped head\"J). The appearance
of ciphers like these throughout \"the book of Doublends Jined\" reminds us tha
t \"the whole thugogmagog\" (222.14) takes place inside the body of a sleeping g
iant (\"Gag and Magog\" were giants of ancient Briton); but they also help us to
fathom the nature of its hero's spatial per- ception in the night, and largely
by indicating when he is not actively dream- ing. For dreams, unlike the sleep o
ut of which they arise, take place in visible and recollectibly delimited repres
entations of space (one sees oneself walking through a narrow corridor, for inst
ance, or a field), whereas dream- less parts of the night, unfolding in the \"fo
urdimmansions\" of a \"Length Withought Breath,\" do not. \"As a rude rule of fu
mb,\" then, these ciphers occur most thickly at the borders of dreams reconstruc
ted in the Wake-as happens, for example, in the closing pages of III.i, where a
lengthily sus-) Nocturnal Geoaraphy) 149)))

tained dream of \"Shaun the Post\" pales out into a darker \"escapology\" as \"S
haun\" \"spoorlessly disappale[s] and vanesshe[s]\" (428.22, 427.6-7)- \"Gaogaog
aone!\" (427.9)-and \"thylike fades\" (427.17). The terms suggest that both the
visible \"likeness\" of Shaun (\"thy like\") and the visual proper- ties of the
dream itself (\"twilight\") \"fade\" here, leaving our blacked-out hero to conte
mplate the absence of any image of the real, \"whose dispari- tion afflictedly f
ond Fuinn feels\" (427.30). The evocations of Finn and \"Fe Fa Fum\" now suggest
that as the familiarly constructed spatialities and forms of the visual dream \
"disselv[e]\" into the \"specturesque silentiousness\" of \"Real Absence\" (608.
5, 427.33), \"his immensesness\" falls out of the little dream scene played out
behind his eyes and between his ears to sink back into a spatiality of \"Length
Withought Breath.\" Throughout \"the book of Doublends Jined,\" comparably, \"on
e must recken with the sudden and gi- gantesquesque appearance\" of \"the dead g
iant manalive\" within whose \"colossets\" \"the whole thugogmagog\" unfolds (25
3.29-30, 500.1-2, 553. lO- II [\"colossus,\" \"closet\"]) . 5 A sleeping giant i
n reality, the \"bigmaster\" who sleeps at Pinneaans Wake now becomes a \"spadam
an spadosum\" (425.32)- \"a handsome example\" (L. specimen speciosum) of \"ampl
e space\" (L. spa- tium spatiosum).) \"THE SPACE QUESTION\ Acquaintance with the
Wake's \"sleeping giant\" and the alien \"dimman- sions\" within which his noct
urnal life takes place leads us to a considera- tion of the maps that accompany
this book. Louis Mink, the distinguished geographer of Pinneaans Wake, has right
ly observed that the Wake \"has its own geography, and a very queer geography it
is too, since it violates the geographical postulate of identification by fixed
coordinates\"; he goes on to note that \"the Wake's Dublin is very different fr
om the real Dublin, but it is derived from it. \"6 In these respects, the Dublin
of Pinneaans Wake resembles entirely the cities that appear in anyone's nightli
fe; for these places, too, differ radically but are derived from the real cities
that they recall, and they violate in every way possible \"identification by fi
xed coordinates.\" Wake- fulness takes place in the familiar \"atmosphere\" of a
\"world\" mapped along charted \"latitudes,\" whereas sleep takes place in its
own quite alien\" amsto- phere\" (452.1-2 [\"am stops here\" in sleep's \"atmosp
here\"]), in a \"whirrld\" structured along lax \"lassitudes\" (147.22,441.9-10)
\ Map A, of \"Howth Castle and Environs,\" shows \"Dublin by Daylight.\" Countle
ss books and directories-Ulysses among them-chronicle its his- tory and the live
s of its inhabitants, and countless more codify the laws that govern its languag
es, customs, and institutions. Bent into a meditation on \"our own nighttime,\"
however, common sense will suggest that nobody soundly asleep and oblivious of t
he location of his head and toes is likely to have the remotest knowledge of the
world as represented in this map, which therefore fails accurately to reflect t
he universe really experienced or known at night. Since anyone brainy enough to
know that England is separated from Ireland by the Irish Sea cannot sufficiently
have \"tropped head,\" new mappings of the world faithful to the experience of
the Wake's sleeping giant-\"a Colossus among cabbages\" (132.27-28)-are necessar
y to an understanding of the \"dimmansions\" in which he dwells (those \"cabbage
s,\" like people, come in \"heads,\" as do our vegetating hero and his \"cabbage
ous [not \"capacious\"J brain\" [409. 13J). In contrast to the map of \"Dublin b
y Daylight,\" then, Relief Map B shows \"Novo Nilbud by swamplight\" (24. I), wh
ich depicts Dublin as a person \"tropped head\" would really \"no\" it. Where \"
by daylight,\" like Leopold Bloom, this \"nulled nobody\" (\"Nilbud\") would ine
vitably see before him at every instant some aspect ofthe \"city\" of Dublin in
all its panoramic variety, night finds looming in his \"eyewitless foggus\" only
a vanished \"sooty\" (143.5, d. 2S.3)-\"Black and All Black\" (S9.4)-lit at bes
t and only at intervals by spectral \"swamplights,\" \"Will-of-the- Wisp[s]\" (2
11.2, 404.15), \"jackalan- terns\" (197.26, 10.27), and other such phosphorescen
t illusions as erupt in dark marshes, in swamps, and, within dreams, on the unde

rsides of shut- tered eyelids. If Dublin lifts into vision at all in this \"swam
plit\" world, it appears only in distortionarily scrambled form (much as the nam
e \"Dublin\" swims into view out of the anagrammatically inverted \"Nilbud\") ,
so that it appears strangely reformed-as \"Novo Nilbud.\" The two maps of Daylit
Dublin and Swamplit \"Nilbud\" have been drawn so that a one-to-one corresponde
nce links them and shows their essential relation to each other. They are two ma
ppings of exactly the same place, as really experienced by the same man, though
in the antithetical states of wakefulness and sleep, where the \"untired world\"
\"recurs. . . the same dif- ferently\" (229.17, 481.1O-II). Since nothing in re
ality changes when our hero falls asleep-\" every thing's going on the same\" (2
6.25), and\" all in fact is soon as all of old right as anywas ever in very old
place\" (586.20-21)- every place inscribed with a name on the map of Dublin reap
pears, al- though in distorted form, on the map of \"Nil bud,\" where a dormant
equiva-) Nocturnal Geoaraphy) 15 1)))
lent appears tattooed on the sleeping \"stigmataphoron\" (606.27 [Gr. \"thing be
aring tattoo marks\"]) shown \"outlined aslumbered\" there. At the same time, ho
wever, since everything in reality changes when he falls asleep, each of the \"s
obsconcious inklings shadowed on [his] soulskin\" in this map of the night world
(377.28) shows the effect of a \"traumaturgid\" \"warping process\" (496.24, 49
7.3)-the \"turgid\" \"dramaturgy\" of the dream-work (Ger. Traum, \"dream\-which
") has cannily distorted whatever sleep has not annihilated. All of the names on
the map of \"Novo Nilbud,\" then-like all terms gen- erally in Pinneaans Wake-s
erve at least a triple purpose, whose total effect is to describe a mind rippled
by flickering \"swamplights\" whenever it is not sunk into the abyssal \"blackh
oles\" of \"Real Absence\" (549.5, 536.5-6). By standing in an inverse relation
to the real-world locality which it parallels, each item on the relief map acts
as a term under erasure, so to indicate the epistemological cancellation of that
locality from \"Nilbud's\" \"trapped head.\" The \"Goatstown\" and \"Dundrum\"
knowable in Daylit Dublin, for example, evaporate into an indistinct \"Ghosttown
\" because \"sir ghostus\" lies in a \"duldrum\" (532.4,51.34), and cannot \"now
here\" they are (10.26 [\"know where\"]) or that they exist. Although in wakeful
ness all of the places named on the relief map lie outside of Joyce's sleeping p
rotagonist, \"there all the time without [him]\" (U, 37), they appear here equal
ly inside of him, aspects of his \"mummery,\" so that they bear his stamp and de
scrip- tively reflect his life in the night. This is the case, for example, with
\"Clown- talkin\" (414.4 [\"Clondalkin\"]) and \"clown toff\" (315.31 [\"Clonta
rf\"]), which refer in part to two places in Dublin, but latently reveal our her
o's sodden incapacity to act as a coherent monologist, much less a rationalist,
in his sleep. In the particular passages from which these names have been stripp
ed, finally, they all bear context-specific senses that cannot be evident here.
But since the network of geographical references informing any work of fiction b
roadly orients it in its relations to the real, these names collec- tively put P
inneaans Wake into a context by mapping out one version of the nocturnal univers
e-the Evening World-it spans. At a remote level, Pinneaans Wake really does take
place in the Dublin of Map A, where our hero lies at home in bed in Chapelizod,
though he cannot know this Dublin or that Chapelizod, much less his \"bed,\" hi
s \"head,\" or, since he \"naver saw his bedshead farrer\" (241.20), his \"bed's
head\" either. To all of these things, together with the whole fiction of subje
ct-object distinc- tions, he lies largely in a vanished relation (hence \"bedshe
ad farrer,\" which plays on the Da. bedstefar [\"grandfather\"] to signify a \"v
anished relation\") .) 15 2) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
This is why Joyce was firm in insisting that a reader need not know Dublin to re
ad Pinneaans Wake (though it doubtlessly helps);7 for the ability to identify \"
Fishamble Street,\" say, differs entirely from the ability required to orient on
eself in the radically alien \"Fleshshambles\" shown \"sprowled met the duskt\"
in the darker map of the night (538.22-23,4.11-12 [the \"owl\" in this \"sprawle

d\" has nocturnal intelligence, while the \"dust\" in this \"duskt\" moves us in
to the night's \"seemetery\"]). More proximately than in Dublin, the Wake takes
place in the \"Dustbin\" or \"Dupling\" (181.17, 586.15 [the trashed and dream-d
eluded little \"dupe\"]) shown snoring away in the map of \"Novo Nilbud,\" inter
ior to whom everything depicted in the map of daylit Dublin has been introjected
and incorporated. Because Pinneaans Wake shows the world reformed in this man's
body and memory, it necessarily shuffles the \"untired world\" through a comple
x set of topological \"inns and ouses\" (7.5) whereby all ordinary surroundings
(like \"inns and houses\ now lie simultaneously both \"inside and outside\" him.
For the two maps of \"Dublin by Daylight\" and \"Novo Nilbud by Swamp- light\"
interpenetrate, each lying simultaneously inside and outside its other. The slee
ping body shown \"sprawled met the duskt\" in the nocturnal relief map, \"in out
her wards\" (285.22-23 [and \"in outer wards\"]), really lies in bed at the plac
e marked \"Chapelizod\" in the map of Dublin; but coordi- nately, the entire gro
und charted out in the map of Dublin really lies buried in the mound labeled \"h
eadth of hosth\" in Relief Map B, where it exists as representation. Since Map A
contains B, and Map B contains A, the hero of Pinneaans Wake might be considere
d, according to one of its recurrent ciphers, a kind of Brian 0 Linn-the subject
of a comic song bent on making the wishful best of always bad circumstances by
turning everything upside down and inside out. 8 Throughout the Wake, \"your pul
lar beer turns out Bruin O'Luinn\" (328.1-2) because sleep transforms an ordinar
y bartender (or \"puller of beer\" ) into a hibernating hulk ( \"polar bear,\" D
u. beer [\"bear\"], \"Bruin\") within whom Dublin has vanished and the end of th
e world ap- peared (hence \"polar\" and comparable ciphers for \"ends of the wor
ld\" in Pinneaans Wake).9 As \"Priam Olim\" (6.23), comparably, our hero used to
be there in the Dublin of Map A (L. olim, \"once\"; prius, \"before\,") but now
, \"reincorporated\" into the spatiality of Map B (387.36), where everything has
been turned \"skinside out\" (507.6), both he and the world lie just\" any were
\" (602.20 [in a vanished past]). The map of \"Novo Nilbud,\" then, shows our he
ro lying \"in vert\" (5.6) as he \"stand[s] at Bay (Dublin) from nun till dan an
d vites inversion\" (523.17 [in other words, he just lies there-\"stands at bay\
"-for an indeterminate length of time and \"invites inversion\"]). Or) Nocturnal
Geoaraphy) 153)))
again, it shows him at \"hevnly buddhy time, inwreathed of his near cis- sies\"
(234.13- I4 [since a \"heavenly body,\" like one \"nearvanashed\" in the \"narci
ssistic\" state of sleep, becomes evident only at night; d. 284.8- 14, 526.34-35
]) . Accurately to portray the simultaneous existence of his ordinary man and sl
eeping giant in the two conflicting spatialities of Dublin and the antitheti- ca
l Nilbud of Map B-in a linearly progressive history and in the \"ex- progressive
process\" of a dream time beneath history (614.31)-Joyce de- ploys throughout t
he Wake a wide-ranging toponymy by which to show his hero leading a \"doublin ex
istents\" (578,14) and dwelling \"in two worlds\" at once (619.11). While it may
well be true, for instance, that our hero lies in bed in the \"township of Chap
elizod\" (this is pronounced with an accent on the short \"i\,") he himself can
\"no\" it only from the \"eyewitless foggus\" of someone \"embedded\" in the \"t
ombshape\" of \"chapel exit\" (265.3, 127.29) or, again, of \"Champelysied\" (60
7.14 [Fr. Champs Elysees, \"the Elysian Fields\"]). Terms like these oblige us t
o see the \"Brian d' of Linn\" (17.12) asleep at Pinneaans Wake as \"a doblingan
ger\" (490.17 [Ger. d6ppelaanaer]) who lives neither exactly in Dublin nor in a
narcissistic \"notshall,\" but in \"doublin\" (3.8), or \"doubling\" (97.9, 197,
5,290.16,295.31,413.25,462.19), his \"real\" life drifting forth through an eigh
t-hour gap of time in Dublin and history as he himself, \"tropped head,\" concei
ves the place more as a \"Taubling\" (7.6), or \"Dufblin\" (447.23): both terms
evoke the \"sooty\" nei- ther seen nor heard by a Taublina (Ger. \"a little deaf
-ling\") whom sleep has rendered \"deaf-blind\" (hence \"Duf-blin\.10") The conf
licted coexistence of these \"two worlds\" and spatialities in the mind of the W
ake's dreamer is re- flected in the design of Pinneaans Wake as a spatial artifa
ct, which on the one hand has the linear and determinate form of any printed boo

k, yet on the other hand cultivates the form of an eternally recurrent circle. I
I Ultimately arbitrary, the two maps of \"Dublin by Daylight\" and \"Novo Nilbud
by Swamplight\" constitute only one of many possible such sets of maps of the \
"doubling\" within which Pinneaans Wake is dynamically set; rather than consolid
ating a set of features that remains fixed in the book, they are meant to illust
rate a kind of understanding necessary to a \"reading of the Evening World,\" as
it unfolds within the central and underlying \"pres- ence (of a curpse).\" Any
Dubliner will note how eccentric Map A is, since it puts main districts and thor
oughfares on a parity with pubs and private estates; and any reader of the Wake
will note how comparably arbitrary is the relief map of \"Novo Nilbud,\" which d
raws on only a few of thousands of toponyms in the book. The nocturnal map is eq
ually arbitrary, however, be-) 154) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
cause it makes \"too dimensional\" (154.26 [and \"two-dimensional\"]) the \"infr
arational\" spatiality within which Finneaans Wake takes place. \"THE MONGREL UN
DER THE DUNGMOUND\" (276.RI) -the sleeping man buried in the body of matter show
n stratified in the map of the Evening World-is en- dowed with an \"INFRALIMINAL
INTELLIGENCE\" that cannot know things as they are presented in either map, as
visible forms localized in geometric space. The map of \"Novo Nilbud,\" then, ob
jectifies space in a way inaccu- rate to the experience of sleep, the night, and
the body, and all the more particularly because the \"inklings shadowed on [the
] soulskin\" of the slum- bering form it represents change fluidly from page to
page of the Wake, as \"matters falling under the ban of our infrarational senses
\" arise internally, wi thin \"the presence (of a curpse) . \" As a way of seein
g how these \"infrarational\" matters everywhere modify the character of represe
nted space in the Evening World, we might examine a passage close to the end of
the Wake, in which its sleeping giant plays host to this drift of \"withought\":
) Death banes and the quick quoke. But life wends and the dombs spake! Whake? Hi
ll of Hafid, knock and knock, nachasach, gives relief to the langscape as he str
auches his lamusong untoupon gazelle channel and the bride of the Bryne, shin hi
gh shake, is dotter than evar for a damse wed her farther. Lambel on the up! We
may plesently heal Geoglyphy's twentynineways to say goodbett an wassing seoosoo
n liv. (595.1-8)) The lines represent the same \"landshape\" as that shown in th
e map of \"Novo Nilbud,\" and again as it appears in \"relief\"; but here the te
rm \"he\" clearly \"indentifides\" the body of the sleeper underlying all eviden
t appear- ances, as that body stretches characteristically from head to foot (\"
Hill of Hafid,\" or \"Hoved,\" suggests \"Howth\" \"head\"; \"knock and knock\"
names two \"knocks out in the park\"; while \"he strauches his lamusong\" sugges
ts that \"he stretches his limbs\.") This \"stretching,\" however, now generates
a second sense of \"relief\" (an easing of discomfort, a \"longing\" to \"escap
e\" [\"langscape\"]), so to show different energies riddling the body which, in
the opening pages of the Wake, lay deeply dead to the world. For \"our local bus
y- body\" (438.16) is now \"pleasantly healing\" and coming back to life after a
night of static embedment in the \"seemetery\" (hence the \"quickening\" of the
\"death bones\" and the sense that \"tombs speak\.") As his body \"pleas- antly
heals\" and moves toward its resurrection, it also begins to regain its capacit
y to \"presently hear\" things-that crowing rooster (595.30), the matitudinal An
gelus pealed out of church bells (601.15-31), noisy delivery vans (604.9- 18) -a
nd weakly to interpret what it hears as it ascends toward) Nocturnal Geoaraphy)
wakeful clarity. \"Nachasach,\" therefore, evokes \"sassanach,\" the Gaelic for
\"Saxon,\" because the interpretive medium of English, is already, \"by and by\"
(Ger. nach und nach), seeping back into our hero's \"knock[ed] out\" and \"trop
ped head\" with morning. Hence again \"knock and knock.\" If earlier parts of th
e Wake have seemed like a vast \"knock-knock\" joke (330.30-32) be- cause of the
difficulty of knowing \"who was there,\" answers,with English, now begin to eme
rge: \"the quick quake\" and \"the dombs spake\" suggest that a body struck \"du

mb\" in sleep, by \"quickening,\" is regaining the ability to \"quote\" and \"sp

eak.\" \"Whake?\" shows our hero wondering \"What?\" is stir- ring the body of m
atter within which he lies embedded; but it also suggests that in his \"infralim
inal intelligence,\" he knows full well. \"At matin a fact\" (596.5 [as a matter
of fact]), \"clarify begins\" here (594.12), at \"matin\" (\"morning\,") when h
e \"comes out of the soil very well after all\" (606.28- 29) and a world full of
\"fact\" returns to his \"tropped head.\" No longer quite dead to the world, as
if at his wake, \"the presence (of a curpse)\" is about to \"wake.\" The Easter
n or oriental term \"Hafid,\" accordingly (Ar. \"preserver,\" \"one who knows th
e known by heart\" ), shows our hero orienting himself, as sun rises in the Orie
nt, in a real world full of facts \"known by heart and pre- served in the head\"
(\"Hafid\" = \"Hoved\.") But since sleep has broken the continuity of this worl
d, and so has altered it, it is not quite the same world that vanished when he f
ell asleep last night. Proverbially, people are accus- tomed to saying that \"th
ings will look different in the morning,\" and the proverb yields its share of t
ruth. One falls asleep nightly, abandoning an Old World sodden with conflicts an
d problems, and wakes up, ideally refreshed, to find a whole New World occupying
the site of the Old World that crumbled with yesterday. The place-names coverin
g the \"langscape\" pre- sented here-\"Cape Strauch\" (\"he strauches\,") the to
wn of \"Lamusong\" (\"his lamusong\,") \"Gazelle Channel,\" and Mount \"Lambel\"
-therefore ori- ent us less in Ireland, than in \"Newirglands\" (595.10 [\"New I
reland,\" in the Melanesian Pacific]), though not in any literal sense. Elements
in a Wakean \"geoglyphy\" \302\253 Gr. \"earth-carving\,") rather than in an or
thodox \"geogra- phy\" \302\253 Gr. \"earth-describing\,") the toponyms suggest
that as the world re- aggregates in our hero's \"tropped head\" under the orient
al pressure of sun- rise, it is not quite the same world he left when he fell as
leep because sleep, having refreshed him, has altered it. He wakens renewed, \"a
newman\" in a new Ireland (596.36). In his \"infraliminal intelligence,\" accor
dingly, an- other drift of associations spins out of the resurrective stirring u
ncon- sciously perceived in his \"stretching limbs,\" both already eager to be \
"on the) 15 6) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
up\" (\"Lambel on the up!\") and, after a quick \"wash,\" out amid company ( \"w
assing seoosoon\" suggests \"wishing to see you soon,\" \"washing,\" and the Ger
. Wasser [\"water\"]). The gathering restlessness in his limbs also evokes the m
emory of a \"dance\" with a \"damsel\" (\"a damse\") and, in particular, with \"
a daughter more dotty than ever for a dance with her father.\" \"What were froze
n loins [are] stirred and lived,\" then (549.8-9); and, feeling re- newed, \"the
old man on his ars\" shown \"scrapheaped\" in the relief map wishfully foresees
wakening into a \"Newirglands\" (with \"newer vir glands\" [L. vir, \"he-man\"]
) so that, like \"Adam\" with \"Eve\" at the beginning of the world (\" eva r fo
r \037 dam se\,") he can begin a new \"season\" of life all over again (\"seooso
on\") and reconquer the lost affections both of young people in general and of t
he members of his family in particular. Countless passages in the Wake comparabl
e to this one would have illus- trated equally well how \"geoglyphic\" place-nam
es, like all symptomatic \"writing. . . streak[ed] over [the] bourseday shirt\"
of the book's sleeping giant (27.10- I I), fluidly change in order to reflect \"
matters falling under the ban of our infrarational senses\" as they ripple throu
gh \"the presence (of a curpse).\" Such passages also help us to gauge the natur
e of the \"dimman- sions\" into which the hero of Pinneaans Wake moves when slee
p pulls him out of Euclidean dimension into the \"nucleuds\" of his body (283.24
). Where spatial relations between objects on the map of Dublin are conventional
ly measured along straight lines in numerical units ranging from inches to miles
and are organized in geometric or geographic space, the transforma- tion that r
elocates the world in the body of the Wake's sleeping giant causes \"spacious\"
\"straight lines\" to become \"specious\" \"strayedline[s]\" (153.17, 293.18,294
.2-3), \"extension\" to become \"extinsion\" (371.24 [\"extinct exten- sian\"]),
and \"number\" to become \"numb,\" \"nummer,\" numbest (546.25-26, 10.28, 242.5
, 313.25, 531.4 [because altogether impalpable]), if not dark \"nombre\" (222.32

[Fr. ombre, \"darkness\"]) or obliterated \"no\" (420.25). The night dismantles

orthodox geometries and geographies, as we learn in one of the Wake's extended
\"Night Lessons\" (II.ii) , and in place of rela- tions drawn by a \"geometer\"
\302\253 Gr. aeometres, \"earth measurer\,") distances are determined by a warme
r \"geomater\" (297.1 [Gr. Gaia mater, \"mother earth\"]). Neither Euclidean nor
Cartesian in character, but emotional or earthily \"infrarational,\" distances
separating \"abjects\" in the interior spa- tiality of \"Novo Nilbud\" are those
of the sort which, through variable degrees of attachment and separation and at
traction and repulsion, make our hero imaginarily near to or remote from another
person or place-in much the same way that Stephen Dedalus, standing two feet aw
ay from) Nocturnal Geoaraphy) 157)))
Buck Mulligan in Ulysses, can be eight months and hundreds of miles away, in the
Paris he knew before his mother's death. And \"as I know and you know yourself.
. . and the arab in the ghetto knows better\" (286.5-7), ra- tionalists deft at
objective measurement are not always best at gauging such \"mythametical\" dist
ances (286.23), which are \"binomeans to be compren- dered\" (285.27-28 [as oppo
sed to \"binomials,\" which are]) because they have little to do with rationalit
y at all. Our hero's nightlife takes place in a space constituted by these \"inf
raliminal\" distances.) \"THE OWL GLOBE\ As one consequence of the topological t
ransformation by which sleep turns the map of Dublin \"skinside out\" into the m
ap of \"Nilbud,\" where every- thing is \"recorporated\" (228.20 [and \"recupera
ted\"]), the Wake's sleeping giant will necessarily absorb and engulf any place
or any thing in the world (just as his cipher, HCE, will absorb any context). Ea
rly in Pinneaans Wake, its reader in fact learns that the still \"form outlined
aslumbered\" throughout the book, a body laid to rest in bed, is \"tautaulogical
ly the same thing\" as \"the owl globe\" (6.29-30); this would be \"the whole gl
obe,\" as informed by a nocturnal intelligence (\"owl\,") within which letters h
ave come to an end (the extra \"tau\" in \"tautaulogically\" [not \"tautological
ly\"], designates the last letter in the Hebrew alphabet and so suggests, like t
he badly fatigued W at 6.32, the end of letters generally). Map A', accordingly,
of Western Europe in the 1930S, shows a portion of \"the whole globe\" as the h
ero of Pinneaans Wake would doubtlessly know it by day; and its nocturnal counte
rpart, Relief Map B', draws eclectically on terms scattered throughout Pinneaans
Wake to yield an \"eyewitless fog- gus\" of the same extended region as Joyce's
sleeping giant would certainly \"no\" it in the night. Again, a one-to-one corr
espondence links these two maps, so that every place charted on the first has it
s sleep-transformed equivalent inscribed on the other; and, again, the two mappi
ngs lie cospa- tially inside and outside each other, our hero in fact lying in b
ed in the area marked \"Dublin\" in the map of Europe, but all of the map of Eur
ope lying buried in the \"Dufblin\" headquarters shown \"corked\" and \"slaine\"
in Map B' (447.23, 155. I, 609.34). The play between the two maps illustrates t
he transformational process by which the \"Western European world\" of the 1930S
, as Joyce's protagonist turns into his body in sleep, in turn turns into a \"wa
stended\" \"neuropean\" \"whorled\" (320.17, 519. I, 272.4), who now lies) 158)
susceptible to those delusionally \"neuropathic\" reconstructions of the real me
t in dreams. The nocturnal map of this \"Neuropath,\" then (488.26), renders con
crete another version of the Wake's singular \"amstophere\" by making visible \"
aspace of dumbillsilly\" (IS.18)-\"a space,\" that is, as it is largely not perc
eived by the \"silly dumbbell\" or espece d'imbecile (Fr., \"type of imbecile\")
who has not only \"trapped head\" within it but is identical to it. Or again, i
t shows our hero in the \"duskguise\" of \"His Revenances, with still a life or
two to spare for the space of his occupancy of a world at a time\" (532.27,52.78 [a \"revenant,\" like a sleeper, comes back to life from death with a life to
spare; but a sleeper does it more than once]). Comparison of the two maps will a
llow a reader of Pinneaans Wake to appreciate \"the highly continental evenement

s\" (398.13) of this \"neuropath\" for whom much of world and the letters that c
onstitute it have \"atlanst\" become \"van- ished consinent[s]\" (601.5, 337.8 [
like \"Atlantis\" and its alphabet]). Where our hero would know by daylight exac
tly where he stood in relation to \"Norway,\" \"Monte Carlo,\" and \"the Spanish
,\" in his sleep, by contrast, he can \"nowhere\" he lies only in relation to \"
Nowhergs\" (533.22 [\"nowhere\"]) and \"mostly Carbo\" (232.3), because his body
\"distends\" \"in the broadest way immarginable\" and leaves his \"tropped head
\" bearing only \"murmur- randoms of distend renations\" with the \"sphanished\"
(358.3, 473.20 [\"dis- tant relations,\" \"vanished\"]). If by day he can expat
iate freely with his cus- tomers about Napoleonic \"Corsica\" and \"the Vatican,
\" comparably, what he can \"no\" in the \"seemetery\" of night is largely a \"m
uddy terranean\" \"nolandsland\" extending through \"Corpsica\" into \"the Vatuc
um\" (120.29, 175. II, 243.31 [\"vacuum\"; this \"Vatucum,\" incidentally, is th
e only real au- thority to which any reader of Finneaans Wake can legitimately a
ppeal]). Latently immanent in all these terms, too, is \"the presence (of a curp
se) .\" A little attention to the area labeled \"idlish\" \"frustate\" in the no
cturnal map of \"neurope\" (182.15, 352.33 [\"Irish Free State\"]) will suggest
that a comparably \"sunless map of the month\" might well be drawn of Ireland or
of \"any were\" (602.20), since \"allspace\" goes into the \"notshall\" of the
body at night. Because our hero is as vastly \"obliffious\" of Ireland as he is
of his head and toes, the \"Irish nation\" evaporates in his sleep into an insub
stantially \"airish\" \"notion\" (55.24, 192.26, 223.3, 327.31, 344.18; 128.16);
or \"goes under\" to become a subterranean \"oreland\" (352.9, 359.26), its dis
appear- ance leaving this \"nought in nought Eirinishmhan\" (616.3) only an \"ai
r- ish,\" \"idlish,\" and at times outrightly \"eeriesh\" \"Inishman\" (70.4, 32
0.13, 91.22 [\"innish\" because \"inner\"]). \"In the drema of Sorestost Areas,
Dis- eased\" (69.14- 15), the quotidian reality of a \"Saorstat Erin\" (or Irish
Free) Nocturnal Geoaraphy) 159)))
1() \037 \037 \037 <f- \037 \037) (') United States of America) Boston, Mass.) N
ew York) Philadelphia) Great Lakes) Erie) Oconee River (Dublin, Georgia)) (' The
Pacific Ocean) America) .A\037 United Kingdom T \037 .. The Scots l\037 Scotlan
d . Inverness Sea of Moyle\"'\037. \" Ulster-::' Fmgal'sCave \037 j., 7' Loch Lo
mond . \" ;;J Argyll \\. Shgo Lough Neagh I Connacht ;ii;;ie of Man Irish Free S
tate Slane Drogheda\037 M \\ DUBLIN-J: . anc ester (Saorstat Eirann) Cork Liverp
ool St. George's Channel ,. \037 . London I N _ etherlands Cornwall S I b r a IS
ury .J The Hague En land The Flemish ::i g Crec'\" Ghent Allemagne (Germany) y
Waterloo Rouen '1. Belgium Paris) North) W\037+E'\ South) 4) Hibernia (Ireland))
The Atlantic) Australia /' /' New South Wales Y Tasmania 4tf\"\" (Van Dieman's
Land) The Antipodes K\ I() Colonial Expansion) /1) Bay of Biscay) The French) Th
e Billowy Way) <)q t:1 The Balearics) The Arctic) J:::::t,.) Ocean) ,..) () Mont
e Carlo co=:1 -\\ )rslr::.! The Vatican 8 Rome The Coliseum Sardinia)))
Nova Zembla ()) MapA' The Western European world, around 1930) I I I I I I a 100
200 300 400 > Miles Finland) Asia) Asia) toJapan :lit (Land of the Rising Sun)
<E-- Europe) Asia) Foochow (China)) \ Cdmeo ./j E \037ere Buckley Shot the Russi
an General sevastop\037 Inkermann The Caucasus) Black Sea) Asia Minor Istambul (
Constantinople) \037 Sea of Marmora (Fr. Mer de Marmora)) The Ottoman Empire (th
rough 1919)) Persia) The Turkish The Turks) The Persians) Bagdad) \037) The Leva
nt) Egypt) The Nile The Sinai (Mountain of the ...,.,.....-- Lord of Israel)) Je
richo , Old Jerusalem The Jordan \\) Arabia Deserta) \037)))
\"sly goings\" \"in [a]free state\" (595.16) (117.34,406.19,604.23) \"Cannought\
" (389.5) \"all of man\" \"slaine\" \037drawadust\", (353.4) (609.34) (447.13) \
037 \\ \"corked\" (155 I) [happens to anythmg \037 (143 7) . /thatjustliesthere]
1 \"manjester\"(73.14) . \037 \"korps\" \" 0 fbl ' \" (447 ' 2 3 ) c-' \"limbopo
ol\" (224.17) ( \"ho p einhaven\" \" h'\" ( 242 I ) (59510) u m . \037 sorestate

eanng. . [\"deaf-blind\"] \"Wilds\" (503.34) \"Liverpoor\" \"netherlumbs\" (319

.17) (143.10) . C (74.13) [nether limbs numb] \037 ,,\" \"Soulsbury\" \"Lonedom\
" \"The A ue\" (1508) Cornerwall (135.1.581.9) (541 29) (239 34) g. ., \"Nodderl
ands\" (385.9) \"Londsend\" the \"phlegmish\" (535.15) (397.24) \"waterloogged\"
\"Gent\" \"Alemane \"-crezy\" ,\0379.8)\" (428.20) (278.L5) \"Boyrut\" Rumes \"
waterloose\" \"Belchum\" (229.34) \"b< (289.26) (8.2-3) ( 9 Iff) \" s . h \" ..
toutglTt (150.11)) \"finister\" (516.35. 566.32-33) [Fr. finisterre. \"Iand'send
,\" \"swiltersland\" (488.30-31) \"earth's end,\" \"the end of the world\"; \" a
r sis\" ( 155.16) [Eng. swill: drink \"alps\" (256.34) Ger. finster. \"dark\"] t
he \"fringe\" P Y l ' E . to excess; swelt. [Ger. Alp, (311 33 233 9) [ p ara Y
SIS + n g . P aresIs . _ ./ ';'. . (swelter) ; black out. \"mghtmare\"] \"Os \"f
insterest\" (50.17) At' \"bunk ofbasky\" '1 / (a bram disease . faint, die] (70.
1 [Fr. finisterre, (374.18-19) \". causmg partial paralysIs \" , \"the end of th
e world\"; and mental degeneration); \"our lake lemanted\" \037\037: GeT. finste
rest. \"darkest\"] \"basquing\" (556.33) Gr. paresis. \"a relaxing\]") '\" (601.
4-5) [his head /\"'\" \"bayondes\" (327.21) \" \"Coma\" (395.8) \"0 h to \"the p
acific subject\" (85.7) [\"beyant the bayondes \"mostly Carbo\" \"\" [ \"don\037
::. I I lki \" ] \"the Libido\" on n' . . . s eepyta ng \"Moulsaybaysse\" (464.2
1) (232.3) [Fr. moule. \"mussel\"; \"moulsay\"; \"\\ (417.17) \"sphanished\" (47
3.20) he's clammed up; \"bouillabaisse\": \"Corpsica\" ,..- and in a fine kettle
offish] <., (175.11) \"barsalooner\" (625.11-12) \"S\037\" ( 22132 ) \" '\\. \"
\037 . the Vatucum [Fr. sourd. \"deaf\"] (243.31) [vacuum] \"ballyhooric\" (555
.10) \"- [\"ballyhoo\": \"empryreal Raum\" (353.29) sensational exaggeration] [E
ng. empyreal. \"ethereal\"; Ger. Raum, \"space\"]) i) \"Waste\" (309.13, 494.14,
578.30)) \"United Stars of Ourania\" (185.31) [the night sky: Gr. Ourania. L. U
rania, muse of the heavens; Gr. ouranos. \"the heavens\"]) \"Bosthoon.\" \"Moss,
\" (273.Ll, 490.1; 347.13) [Anglo-Ir. bosthoon, \"blockhead. dummy\"; moss: just
lies there]) ............ \"hiberniating\" \037 (316.15-16) \"hibernating\" (79
.5) \037) \"new yoke\" (137.32) \037 [a \"yoke\" immobilizes]) \"Fellagulphia\"
(320.20) [\"gulf\": abyss]) \"Soretost Areas\", (69.15).\",.lJf) \"greyt lack\"
(601.5)) \037 \"Erie\" (601.6) [\"eerie\"]) \"Ocone! Ocone!\" (297.11) [Gael. oc
bOn. \"alas!\"]) \"the Afrantic (297.32) [ \"a-frantic\": \"not frantic,\" i.e.,
\"not hot in the brain,\" brainless, mindless]) \037) \"Amessica-\" (105.36)) \
"Noth\" (494.14)) \"Eased\" (18.35)) \"the kathartic\" (185.6)) \"nolandsland\"
(391.15) [no-man's-land]) \"Soot\" (494.14)) \"sunsrr) \"land of Nod\" (181.5, 2
88.25) [Genesis 4: 17-18]) \"midnights unwan [\"unwards\": towal) \"disunited ki
ngdom on the vacuum\" (188.16-17)) \"Ossean\" (139.22) / [\"Ossian\": son of Fin
n, a giant] \"Schiumdinebbi. [It. schiuma di I \"foam of mists\"]) \"benighted q
ueendom\" (241.22) the \"scotched\" (210.27) [Eng. scotched: stifled. stamped ou
t]) ,) \"moyles\" (628.3) [Eng. moils, \"tosses about in confusion\"]) \302\245)
\"Iochkneeghed\" (241.24)\037) \"under loch and neagh\" (196.20) [arrested] \03
7) \"down under\" (321.32, 450.1) in \"the pillory way\" (16.3-4) [\"pillories\"
arrest]) \"astraylia-\" (321.9) \037) \"ostralian someplace\" (488.20) [L. ostr
a = \"purples,\" dark colors]) \\,) \"van Oemon's Land\" (56.21)) \"Tossmania\"
(416.30) [\" tossing\" ; \"mania\"]) .I') \037 \"antipathies\" (489.10) \"NooSoc
h Wilds\" (497.13) /) \"Room\" (153.23)) \"his coglionial expancion\" (488.31-32
) [It. coalione, \"stupid\"; It. coalioni, \"testicles\"])))
C,,/) Sunburst\" (71.15) t sun\" : borealligh t s, as in dreams]) d\" (340.24) g
iant, fills space]) \"zembliance of mardal mansk\" (317.33-34) [\"semblance of m
ortal man\": Lappish murmansk, \"the fringe of the world\"]) Relief Map B' A \"W
ast ended\" \"Neuropean\" \"Whorled\" (3 20 . 1 7, 5 1 9. I, 272.4), \"at no spa
tial time processly which regards to concrude chronology\" (358.5-6)) \"a finn\"
(362.12) \037 [a giant] \",) finish\" (285.22)) \"moyles and moyles\" (628.3) .
. [Eng. moil: to churn about; confusion] \"mires\" (410.34)) \"reptrograd leanin
s\" (351.27-28) \037 [\"retrograde leanings\": regression]) \037) \"Easia\" (482
.30) [ease]) )) \"volgar\" (211.13)) rising sun (609.20) \037) \037) \"Asea\" (4
47.25)) \037 \"risingsoon\" (312.8) \037 \"youreups\" (300.F2) \037 [rise and sh
ine] \"the foochoor\" (608.21) -) .) \"Ashias\" (608.31) [ashes]) \037ck[ed]'\"

(332.36) \"in Cimmerian shudders\" or slowback'] (504.7) [\"in Cimmerian shadows

\": Gr. Cimmeria ( source of the name \"Crimea\" ) : \" (12622) . . \"a place of
perpetual night at the end \"Trancenama . . of the world, openmg mto Erebus, th
e underworld] (531.34) \037 > [trance, inane] .I \".., ,,' \" \"Sea vaast a poo!
!\" mkerman (433.9; (338.14) \\ where \"bulkily he shat\" \"that reg
ion's general\" \"varnashedl (l92.2,471.19-20) (339.11) ( \"blackseer\" (340.13)
\"Are you not somewhat bulgar ' t k b . d \". withyourbowels?\" (563.14) o yo e
, In , \"Arssia Manor\" Y okes immobilize \302\253 --' ( 26 4 ) \037 . the \"Oth
erman\" \"Em re\" \"stambuling:' (33.36) , \"Comestowntonobble\" (419.26,289.10)
py [blundenng In the dark] (74.11) h 1 . ] bbl [Eng. empyrean. \"et ere a . [no
e(Br.sl.): to drug and lame] \"mar of murmury\" (254.18) [marred memory murmuri
ng]) /) (he \"tarpitch\" (232.1)) (344.20) \"tuckish armenities\" (530.6) [tucke
d-in amenities]) :s\ (625.4) s-sidhe, \"fairy-folk,\" md inhabitants of burial m
ounds Gaelic Lexicon, 380]) \"to the \"Jordan\" (103.8,210.30; 228.31)) \"ourmen
ial\" (321.23-24) \"Airmienious\" (296.8) [\"mien\": way of conducting oneself:
\"air\": invisible\"]) \"something. . . comequeers this. . . perssian\" (357.6-9
)) the \"Tark's\" (239.1)) \"the turkest night\" (442.33)) \"Off with your persi
ans!\" (532.2)) \"Ievanted\" (84.2) [Eng. levant: to vanish. abscond]) \"tyred\"
(394.16)) \"alldconfusalem\" (355.11)) \"went to Jericho\" (150.19-20) [Br. sl.
: \"went somewhere unknown\"]) \"Etheria Desena\" (309.9) [ void ether]) \037ng.
jOrdan, \"chamberpot\"] ,) \"Erebia\" (473.16) [Gr., L. Erebus, the underworld,
land of the dead])))
State) disintegrates to become only a \"dream\" of \"drama\" (\"drema\") en- dur
ed in bed (a \"sore-tossed area,\" associated both with the \"diseased\" and the
\"deceased\.") And \"Erin,\" comparably, used to be there \"in the days when He
ad-in-Clouds walked the earth,\" but now that the invaluable re- sources of his
\"trapped head\" lie \"spent\"-\"Erin gone brugk\" (347.21 )-Erin exists only \"
erehim\" (17.23), \"ere in\" sleep he fell (62.19,427.6), so to be transformed i
nto an \"Ailing\" (148.33 [because \"in bed\"]) or \"erring\" (198.12, 272.20, 2
88.F6; cf. 62.25), at least until \"Eringrowback\" in the morning (389.4-5) .n \
"By his selfdenying ordnance,\" then, our self-extinguishing hero has \"left Hyl
and on the dissenting table\" too (73.2-3 [where it lies \"dissected\"]), so tha
t a \"sunless map\" of \"erehim\" might be drawn with as much particu- larity as
the two relief maps of \"Novo Nilbud\" or of the \"Waste\" (494.14 [the West]).
If in wakefulness our hero certainly knows full well what and where Counties Mo
naghan, Louth, Tipperary, Cavan, and Down are, \"Monaghan\" by night vanishes in
to spooky \"moonyhaunts\" (595.15); \"Louth\" washes out in the sleep of a \"lou
t\" (595.12); \"Tipperary\" disintegrates whenever, lost in the \"deep deep deep
s of Deepereras\" (595.28), he feels \"his topperairy\" (131.5 [an\" airy\" \"to
pper\" would be a headlike structure void of content]) ; \"Cavan\" simply disapp
ears in \"coffins\" (595.15), \"Maryborough, Leix,\" dis- solving into \"Mirybur
row, leaks\" (577.14). As for \"Down,\" it simply sinks into deeper \"downs\" (1
01.6), there to form part of a world \"down under\" (321.32, 450.1 [not necessar
ily Australia]) and finally to drift into \"the downandoutermost\" (194.19). \"A
ll gone\" (380.36). These orienting comments apart, the two maps of the Evening
World will explain themselves and are meant to be read on their own. Except that
they will not account fully for the roles of Shem or Shaun in the Wake, or at a
ll for its female characters, they offer, in their own way, a synthetic reading
of the book. Items on these maps have been arranged in ways meant both to be sug
gestive and to discourage the bad habit of reading sequentially along the \"rule
d barriers\" of written lines (see 114.2-20). Readers who have traced on a map o
f Dublin Bloom's wanderings through the\" Lestrygonians\" episode of Ulysses, fo
r instance, will not be surprised to note that on the \"sunless map\" of \"neuro
pe,\" the \"strayedline[s]\" leading from \"Belchum\" through \"Ale- many\" and
\"Stoutgirth\" into \"hungery\" and the region \"where bulkily he shat\" \"that
region's general \"-\"Arssia Manor\"-roughly sketch out the ali- mentary tract o
f a sleeping giant, every square inch of it underwritten with signs of conflict.
Study of these submerged \"aliment[s]\" (163.2 [\"elements\"])) 164) JOYCE'S BO

will also begin to suggest why the long story told in the Wake of \"how Buck- le
y shot the Russian general\" is only a dream (337.32-355.33), bearing on \"matte
rs that fall under the ban of our infrarational senses,\" and not a his- torical
account of a skirmish in the Crimean War. \"Berkeley showed the rea- son genrou
sly\" (423.32-33 [by distinguishing the ideal from the real]): the area in which
Buckley shot the Russian general, and the place in which our hero himself exper
iences \"defecalties\" (366.20-21) is not the Crimea at all. As these indication
s in turn suggest, reference to these maps, or to any sleeping body, will now en
able us to draw some broad general inferences about Pinneaans Wake as a whole.)
\"POLAR ANDTHISISHIS\ Reference either to \"the beast of boredom, common sense\"
(292.28) or to a document like the Encyclopaedia Britannica would advise us tha
t the two mappings of the Evening World violently distort a reality more accurat
ely rendered in the familiar maps of Dublin and Europe. Consider only the exampl
e of the \"Willingdone mormorial\" (8.35), which has assumed, in \"Novo Nilbud,\
" dimensions ridiculously disproportionate to any sense of spatial exactitude, a
nd a centrality incommensurate with its real cultural importance (Dubliners call
it an \"overgrown milestone\" [36.18]).13 Argu- ably, however, the misrepresent
ation works the other way around, the maps of Dublin and Europe disfiguring in t
heir own ways a reality rendered quite accurately in the two maps of the night.
For no one, phenomenologically, ever experiences the world as it is depicted in
the maps of Dublin and Eu- rope-now, for example, as one sits in a room reading
amid a clutter of fa- miliar objects, so \"obliffious\" of abstract compass dire
ctions like \"north\" and \"south\" and of places like \"Monte Carlo,\" until pr
int, exigency, or asso- ciation brings them to mind, that they might more accura
tely be labeled, as in Map B', \"Noth,\" \"Soot,\" and \"mostly Carbo.\" As one
encounters the world in its average everydayness, moreover, one is always more i
ntimately yoked in space to some underlying but unseen \"carcasses,\" as shown i
n Map B', than to a locale like \"the Caucasus,\" knowledge of which ordinarily
reaches one not through direct experience but through the \"carcass's\" print- r
eading eyes and hearsay-accumulating ears. Only minimal reflection will answer s
atisfactorily the question of whether the space within which one personally pass
ed the last day or two might better be construed as the heart-) Nocturnal Geoara
phy) 16 5)))
land of\"Amessica\"-a big one-or an abstract \"America\"; of \"Errorland\" or \"
Ireland\" (62.25); of \"your disunited kingdom\" (188.16- 17) or of their theoretically \"United\" one. The two sets of maps, then-one of surface geometries a
nd objective rela- tions, the other of subliminal and emotional relations-might
be seen as distortions of each other, each ignoring properties central to the st
ructure of its counterpart. However true it may be that the two chartings of the
Eve- ning World radically deform the place familiarly depicted in the maps of D
ublin and Europe, the maps of Dublin and Europe complementarily over- look, and
so violently distort, a number of matters overwhelmingly central to the two maps
of the night-only the most obvious of these embodied in the \"Willingdone mormo
rial\" and all that it stands for. Visceral \"matters that fall under the ban of
our infrarational senses,\" they find no represen- tative expression in the obj
ective version of things charted out in the two maps of the world known to \"day
's reasons\" (347.24).14 One way of seeing how destructively \"day's reason\" di
storts concerns that everywhere inform the Evening World would be to consider th
e notorious \"Phoenix Park incident.\" Everyone acquainted with Pinneaans Wake k
nows that its hero broods guiltily throughout the book about some shadowy act of
trespass committed in the Phoenix Park, although the exact nature of \"the alle
ged misdemeanor\" remains vexingly unclear (35. 6 , 33.14-34.29). Those who have
sought to unravel the details note that the crime is \"never fully delineated,
but is alluded to or momentarily illumined at several in- stances\";15 and in th
e criticism, \"there extand by now one thousand and one stories, all told,\" abo

ut \"whatever it was. . . he thried to two in the Fien- dish park\" (5.28-29, 19

6.9-II) .16 Yet even studies that acknowledge the necessity of the crime's incer
titude rather than trying to pin it down to a violation of \"section II of the C
[riminal]. L[aw]. A[mendment]. act 1885\" (61.9- IO [the one for which they nail
ed Oscar Wilde]) fail sufficiently to appreciate that Finneaans Wake is \"an imi
tation of the dream-state,\" and not a chronicle of real-world affairs. Most cri
tical treatments of \"the crime\" overlook the obvious fact that almost everybod
y in the world has dreamed of perpetrating some nasty public indiscretion, but t
hat having dreamed of such an offense hardly means that one really committed it.
Much the same is the case with our hero, who has \"an impressive private reputa
tion for whispered sins\" (69.4 [\"private reputation\" is a self-canceling phra
se]), and whose crime takes place not in the Daily World represented in the maps
of Dublin and Europe, but in their fleshier counterparts. The actual site of HC
E's criminal trespass is not a real-world Phoenix Park at all, but rather) 166)
an area figured more accurately in the Wake as \"feelmick's park\" (520.1) or \"
Phornix Park\" (80.6). Our hero's indiscretion, \"in shorts\" (437.11), is local
ized in a particular spot about which, as an adherent of the \"High Church of En
gland\" (36.29), he feels great shame\" (you know. . . in your art of arts. . .
as well as I do (and don't try to hide it) the penals lots I am now poking at)\"
(188.30-32). This would explain, moreover, why \"the crime\" assumes the propor
tions of original sin, and also why, like a great deal of conflict in Pinneaans
Wake generally, it takes place under the shadow of \"the Willingdone mormorial\"
(as opposed to \"the Wellington Memo- rial\.") In \"Dublin by Daylight,\" the \
"overgrown milestone\" no doubt means as little to our hero as it does to the av
erage Dubliner, and not least because it lies in his own backyard. But in \"Novo
Nilbud by swamplight,\" by con- trast, precisely its triviality-as well as its
extended associations with con- quest and power-makes it an ideal item onto whic
h the Wake's dreaming hero can displace important \"infraliminal\" concerns. If
one studies the endlessly modulating forms that HCE's \"crime\" takes as it reap
pears throughout Pinneaans Wake, it now becomes evident that how- ever imaginary
the \"ludicrous imputation[s]\" ascribed to him may be, he is in fact guilty, d
own to the letter, of every single one of them (33.26). There can be no doubt at
all that the \"magnificent brut\" has urinated in the area in question (503.29
[\"Trickspissers vill be pairsecluded\"]). If he is indeed a married male with a
daughter, he has certainly exposed himself to two fe- males there; and consider
ing some likely occasions on which he would have done so with one of them, he wo
uld likely have taken voyeuristic pleasure in turn. Finally, too, it is not impr
obable that he is fully guilty of \"abusing the apparatus\" (520.7-8) and \"hav[
ing] taken his epscene licence. . . as re- gards them male privates\" (523.34-35
[though these would be his \"epicene\" own]). What is true of the Wake as a who
le, then, is also true of this \"crime.\" \"It's like a dream\": \"a baser meani
ng has been read into [all] these [alphabetic and fictional] characters the lite
ral sense of which decency can safely scarcely hint\" (33.14- 15). Precisely the
slippery indefiniteness with which the Wake treats HCE's crime, finally, allows
]oyce to capture his hero's guilt with an exactitude that would not be possible
in the rule-bound, fact- craving Daily World. The critical inclination to take H
CE's crime literally, as a fact of the world, stems from a failure to take the a
ppropriate \"polar bearing[s]\" in a nocturnal universe whose every feature is a
\"polar andthisishis\" (177.33) of the evident forms of the Daily World (\"and
this is his antithesis\.") The taking of these \"polar bearing[s]\" means that s
ome epistemological adjust-) Nocturnal Geoaraphy) 16 7)))
ments are essential to an understanding of our hero's nightlife. Anyone who beli
eves that the maps of Dublin and Europe represent the world accurately has spent
perhaps too much time reading \"the dully expressed\" (500.15- 16 [the Daily Ex
press]) and too little \"reading the Evening World.\" The world preserved in the

se maps is held in place by countless rule-governed systems maintained by a hier

archy of authorities ranging from legislators and geog- raphers to cartographers
, printers, and authors. One accedes to the truth value of these \"fibfib fabric
ations\" (36.34), as a necessary accommodation to a collective reality, by placi
ng trust in an \"awethorrorty\" that far tran- scends any individual (516.19), a
nd also by succumbing to many tacit as- sumptions about what the world is and wh
at its people are. If the two day- clear maps show the \"field\" of our hero's \
"existence\" as netted everywhere by this \"awethorrorty,\" the two Wakean maps
of the night show simply the \"felled\" of his \"exsystems\" (246.4, 340.8; 148.
18 [all systems]). For not simply geometric space and geography, but everything
on which the daily world and our hero's ordinary bearings in it are predicated t
urns into its \"polar andthisishis\" in the night-and in ways everywhere reflect
ed by the Wake's carefully modified predicates themselves. 17 Since the Wake as
a whole is linked together by dissolved predicates, we might now see them moving
its sleeping \"sopjack\" into such odd relations with imaginary\" abjects\" tha
t, simply through its \"sintalks\" (269.3 [nasty \"syntax\"]), the book dismantl
es the structures on which the Daily World is predicated. And as this disman- tl
ing happens in small, so it also happens in large. Authority tells us, for insta
nce, that the Dublin represented in Map A was founded in A.D. 837 by Viking warl
ords on fenland and estuarial silt. Not so. The real ground and foundation on wh
ich Dublin or any other city rests is the substratum shown \"outlined aslumbered
\" in the two maps of the Evening World-the ephemeral, labor-exploitable body (U
, 164) which ob- jectively drawn maps of the world could not represent even if t
hose who drew them wanted to. This is why the Brian 0 Linn who sleeps \"skinside
out\" at Pinneaans Wake, an ordinary man in fact, becomes in the \"Big- messer'
s conversions\" of his sleep a \"Priam Olim\" (530.32, 6.23 [\"Priam\" is the fa
ther of a fallen city]) or, in the guise of a \"Bygmester\" (4.18 [Da. \"mas- te
rbuilder\"]), the maker and founder of cities generally (532.5-554.10). All such
orderly structures as that literately represented in the map of Dublin are laye
red up over the Adamic clay depicted in the map of \"Novo Nilbud\"- \"Amtsadam,
sir, to you!\" (532.6 [\"am Adam\"])-which, more than vacant matter and two or t
hree Great Individuals, constitute their real glory and ground. The observation
underscores at once the pathos of our hero's posi-) 168) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DAR
tion and the naivete of early Marxist dismissals of Pinneaans Wake. In \"Dub- li
n by Daylight,\" our expendable average man-\"Canon Futter\" (9.19-20 [\"cannon
fodder\"]) -is a marginal, ephemeral nothing, whereas in \"Novo Nilbud by Swampl
ight\"-\"fiefeofhome\"! (133.17)-he fills immensity (\"Fe Fa Fum\.") Hence again
, by way of an intonation that Maria ]olas early noted in the book's title, the
power immanent in the Wake's sleeping giant: Pinneaans, wake!, you have nothing
to lose but your chains. IS At least since 1789, authority in its liberal forms
has also argued that the world depicted in the maps of Dublin and Europe is one
structured on the humane ideals of \"lebriety, frothearnity and quality\" (133.3
1-32 [\"liberty, fraternity, and equality\"]). Not so. As the submerged referenc
es to our hero's pubkeeping business and a glance at the nocturnal maps will att
est (\"Canon Futter\" \"earns\" by selling \"frothy\" \"quality\" stout and prov
iding the service of \"ebriety\,") the world is \"infrarationally\" shaped by th
e form of an all- engulfing patriarchy, in whose business and interests everyone
is enmeshed. Beyond that, as much feminist writing has shown, the world figured
in the maps of Dublin and Europe as one of free agency is latently underlined b
y the pattern and force of male desire, as the nocturnal maps more accurately re
veal. 19 All this is only to note, as have others, that far from marking a withd
rawal from a civilization in crisis, Finneaans Wake in an odd way crys- tallizes
that crisis, and not least through its assault on the institution of a language
through which all the other institutions of a patriarchal culture are transmitt
ed from parent to child and from generation to generation, over and over again,
\"the seim anew\" (215.23).20 The conflicts assailing the \"per- pendicular pers
on\" shown snoring away in the two maps of the night, then- the head of a househ

old and a beleaguered patriarch in fact-are represen- tative of larger crises ag

itating the social world of which he is a negligibly small but nonetheless forma
tive part. The two maps of the night show \"the old man on his ars\"-and \"Great
Scrapp! 'Tis we and you and ye and me and hymns and hurts and heels and shields
\" (514.34-35 [note the scale of emo- tion running from awed reverence to sheer
pain in all these \"hymns and hurts,\" the variety of response ranging from flig
ht to entrenched defense in all these\" heels and shields\"]) . Accession to the
rational and objective view of things represented in the maps of Dublin and Eur
ope entails the harnessing of the body to laws-and not simply to Freudian laws o
f corporate control, but to a whole host of laws that are inscribed on every squ
are inch of the Wake's sleeping \"stig- matophoron,\" all the way from \"tumptyt
umtoes\" to \"humptyhillhead\": laws that reform the \"bourseday suit\" he was b
orn with so that it will \"stand) Nocturnal Geoaraphy) 16 9)))
up tall!\" and walk (620.1); laws like \"section II of the C.L.A. Act 1885\" tha
t determine \"Cur, quicquid, ubi, quando, quomodo, quoties, quibus auxiIiis\" (1
88.8-9 [L. \"why, what, where, when, how, how many times, with what assistance\"
]) his body will have its pleasure;21 laws that determine where his tongue must
hit the palate so as to produce distinct words and polite conversation rather th
an mere noise, Wakese, or offensive remarks; and laws that harness his eyes and
mind in the act of reading, not least, so that they dutifully move along word by
word, line by line, page after page, translat- ing words into conventional sens
es-and all this, too, without any slouch- ing or moving the lips. The world figu
red in the maps of Dublin and Europe, then, depends for its coherence not simply
on authority, but on authorship as a collective enterprise and on language as a
system, whereas the world pervaded by the Wake's sleeping giant does not: the t
wo maps of the night show us a landform in which letters are buried (Lv), missin
g (e.g., 66.10- 28), and undeliverable (420.17-421. 14). And consequently, \"as
my instruc- tor unstrict me\" (295.21-22), there are no rules down here (295.21)
; one moves \"ad libidinum in these lassitudes\" (441.9-10). \"Reading the Eveni
ng World\" obliges one to take \"polar bearing[s]\" not simply toward a world co
nventionally structured by \"awethorrorty,\" but toward the convention- ally leg
ible structures of authors as well.) \"p 0 LIT I C 0 E COM E D y\ The terms stre
wn over the two maps of the Evening World are fundamen- tally sleep descriptive,
of course; but not to notice that one of their inciden- tal effects is the whol
esale dismantling of the arrangements \"set up over the slop after the war-to-en
d war by Messrs a charitable government\" (178.24- 26) and of the political stat
us quo that Joyce would have known in the 1920S and 1930S would be to overlook a
n essential aspect of the Wake's dark refor- mations of space and \"exsystems.\"
Because the terms on the night maps do formally what dreams do, revealing in th
e body of the Wake's sleeping giant an underworld of aggressive forces and illic
it pleasures whose release would mean the rubbling of government and self-govern
ment both, they introduce us obliquely to the Wake's definite, if eccentric \"po
liticoecomedy\" (540.26). What began as a contrast between the conflicting geome
tries and geogra- phies experienced in wakefulness and sleep, then, now modulate
s into a contrast in polar world-views-one structured on the principles of maste
ry, order, and \"day's reasons,\" the other escaping structure altogether in ana
rchic) 17 0) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
playfulness, great \"thisorder\" (540.19), and \"alternate night joys\" (357.18)
. For if the maps of Dublin and Europe chart out a dimension that we might loose
ly construe as the Empire, their nocturnal counterparts, by standing the world \
"on its dead\" (560.7-8 [\"head\"]), show the Empire in general and the \"old ma
n on his ars\" in particular without any clothes. \"Vott Fonn!\" (345.9) .n Beca
use the Wake purveys an \"idioloay\" of \"the murketplots\" (352.19, 368.9 [\"mu
rked plots\"])-and not an \"ideology\" of \"the marketplace,\" it stands in an e
xtremely fringey relation to the culture that produced it. 23 As a work committe
d to the \"trapped head,\" it is antithetical to the go-getting propellants of\"

capi talism\" \302\253 L. capita lis , \"of the head,\" the brainy center of al
l hustling), and not just rationalistically but pragmatically too: \"it amounts
to nada in pounds or pence\" (521.5-6). On the other hand, a work so anti-author
itarian as the Wake stands in an equally fringey relation to any orthodox form o
f Marxism. H Everything in the world represented in the maps of Dublin and Europ
e, according to \"Marx and their Groups\" (365.20), is particled up out oflabor,
tremendous labor, whose impact is felt in even the most desultory acts of wakin
g life (standing, for instance). In the night's \"amstophere,\" by contrast, \"a
ll's loth and pleasestir\" (263.22-23)- \"loth, please, to stir,\" because\" all
's love and pleasure.\" We might, therefore, regard \"the accomplished washout\"
(174.8) shown stratified in the two re- lief maps as a member of the \"industri
al disabled\" (409.25-26), \"disbarred . . . from unnecessary servile work\" (41
1.2-3), if not overtly \"on strike\" against the arrangements represented in the
maps of Europe (\"not what I wants to do a strike of work\" [409.33-34]). Or, a
gain, we might construe \"the lifesize obstruction\" as a practicing \"passive r
esistant\" (529.29, 72.19), since \"his most besetting of ideas. . . [is] the fo
rmation. . . of a . . . stra- tum\" (76.2-5) and he does an extremely good job o
f lying there, even when conflicts arise. Finally, too, we might think of the Wa
ke's heroic loafer as a figure \"hungerstriking all alone\" (199.4), since sleep
, from one perspective, is simply a kind of \"hungerstrike\" in which the self b
reaks its contract with the management of reality. lf the arrangements represent
ed in the two maps of the Daily World do not quite work, then, it is because the
constituent force that holds them together-the brainy \"Headmaster\" (2SI.28)-d
oes not work either. \"Strike the day off, the nightcap's on nigh\" (3 06 . F2 )
. 25 A complex joke, in turn, suggests that \"the aboleshqvick\" (302.18 [\"Bolshevik\"]) \"hungerstriking all alone\" in the maps of the night is perpetratin
g a deviant form of \"sabotag\" on the West in \"the wastes a'sleep\" (64.1)- wh
ere \"The West's Asleep\" and he lies dead to the world (hence \"abolish-) Noctu
rnal Geoaraphy) 17 1)))
quick\" ). For\" after suns and moons, dews and wettings, thunders and fires, co
mes sabotag\" (409.28-29 [It. saboto, \"Saturday\"]). At its most trans- parent,
the line draws a list of weekdays into a weekend to tell us that our hero is a
\"weekender\" (124.36), on \"vacation in life\" (411.1-2), though in no pedestri
an sense of these terms. A good way \"to kill time\" (173. I I) and to \"vacate\
" the head absolutely, sleep sends our hero into a \"vacation\" of the deepest p
ossible kind and so makes him not simply \"a weekender,\" but a complete \"timek
iller\" (247.2), capable of putting an \"end\" to \"weeks,\" per- ceived years,
days, minutes, and history. 26 And as \"he doze soze\" (345.7-8), he inevitably
throws a wrench into the working of the Daily World, for as any employer will te
ll you, sleeping is not productive, and in certain forms can be outright \"sabot
age.\" Like many other terms in the Wake, all these lines on \"weekending\" begi
n inviting us to wonder what would happen to the patriarchal machinery of the \"
waste\" if all its latter-day Vikings, all \"the gogetter[s] that'd make it pay
like cash registers\" (451.4-5), and all the \"bright young chaps of the brandne
w braintrust\" (529.5) just relaxed and calmed down for a while. 27 Deeper entry
into the mind of the \"laboursaving deviser\" (585.15-16) shown plotting away f
urtively in the relief maps of \"Nilbud\" and \"neurope,\" then, raises the whol
ly speculative question of what the evolved work of the world would be if the wh
eels of its production were moved-as Pinneaans Wake and its dreamwork were motiv
ated-by \"gaylabouring\" (6.23 [not \"day labouring\"] ) and pleasure determined
to have its out. Finally evident in the play of all these contrasts is not prim
arily a po- litical self-consciousness about a \"state\" so anarchic as the nigh
t, but a prolonged and intense focus on the nature of conflict itself. What Joyc
e called \"irreducible antagonism[s]\" produce unyielding tensions, at every min
ute of the day and night, between the two \"coexistent and compresent\" worlds t
hat this chapter has explored (526. 12)-one \"the wikeawades warld\" (608.34 [\"
wide-awake world\"]) represented in the geographically coherent maps of Dublin a
nd Europe, the other an \"in risible universe\" (419.3 [an \"invisible\" and \"r

isible\" one]) immanent in their dark and carnal comple- ments; one a geometrica
lly constructed space accessible to vision and rea- son, the other an \"infrarat
ional\" dimension out of sight and out of mind. 28 Study of neither of these \"t
wo worlds\" in itself will account for the forma- tion of our hero's body, his l
ife, or any minute in the here-and-now; nor for the anarchic, yet controlled \"p
oliticoecomedy\" of the Wake. 29 Like the com- promise formation of a dream, Pin
neaans Wake takes place in the area where these two \"coexistent and compresent\
" dimensions, each \"equal and) 17 2) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
opposite\" (488.9), both necessary to the living of any life yet both \"eter- na
lly opposed\" (488.10- II), produce incessant tensions requiring constant resolu
tion. We might therefore think of the body of the Wake's sleeping hero as a \"bl
uddle filth\" (10.8-9 [a \"battlefield\" of \"blood and filth\"]) in which all t
hese conflicts are set perpetually at war. In many ways, these conflicts and the
carnal ground in which they play themselves out are so alien to and removed fro
m consciousness that Joyce devises a whole new science to re- construct their in
trusion into our hero's \"trapped head.\" Since his intellec- tual forebear in t
his endeavor was Vico, this would be the point at which to distance oursel ves f
rom the language of the Wake in order to consider the impact on \"the book of Do
ublends Jined\" of The New Science and its world- founding giants.) Nocturnal Ge
oaraphy) 173)))
CHAPTER) SEVEN) Vieo's \"Niaht of Darkness\" : The New Science and Finnegans Wak
e) Darkness. . . is the material of this Science, uncertain, unformed, obscure.
. . . (NS,41)) \"OUR FAMILY FURBEAR\ The critical work on Pinneaans Wake has fai
led to account fully for Joyce's passionate interest in Giambattista Vico's New
Science. Working from a sar- donic sentence in one ofjoyce's letters to Harriet
Shaw Weaver (\"I would not pay overmuch attention to these theories, beyond usin
g them for all they are worth, but they have gradually forced themselves on me t
hrough circum- stances of my own life\" [L, I, 241; JJ, 554]), most critics of t
he Wake have remained content to draw on a reading of Vico that had already beco
me gelled, as early as 1950, into a received form destined to be passed on from
study to study without much examination or modification. William York Tindall, t
he last critic to put finishing touches on this orthodox version of Joyce's Vico
, tells the story best:) In each cycle of history there are three ages: the divi
ne, the heroic, and the human, or the primitive, the semi-historic, and the hist
oric. These three ages produce three) 174)))
sacred customs: religion, marriage, and burial, the first a product of the divin
e age, the second of the heroic, and the third of the human. After circular flux
comes re- flux. When one cycle is over, another begins, and, as the Phoenix ris
es from its ashes, history repeats itself. The first divine age that we know abo
ut is the period before the Trojan War. With that war, the heroic age began. The
human age of Athens and Rome led to the reflux, and from Rome's decay came a ne
w age, as di- vine, barbarous, and cruel as the first. The feudal period of Euro
pe brought a return to the heroic age. Vico lived in the human age, and it is ea
sy to guess where we are. l) There are, of course, other givens: Vico's conjectu
re that the crack of thunder, first sounded on the first page of the Wake, terri
fied men in a barbarous state of nature into seeking shelter in caves and so int
o beginning the churning of the wheels of social history; his conjecture that th
e terrifying thunderclap caused men to try to duplicate its sound and its power
by babbling ono- matopoeically, thereby beginning the history of human language;
and the observation, first made by Beckett in 1929, that Joyce textured Pinneaa
ns Wake with an array of quadrupartite phrases which evoke the four human instit
utions informing Vico's history:) There are numerous references to Vico's four h
uman institutions-Providence counting as one! \"A good clap, a fore wedding, a b
ad wake, tell hell's well\": \"Their weatherings and their marryings and their b

uryings and their natural selections\": \"the lightning look, the birding cry, a
we from the grave, everflowing on our times\": \"by four hands of forethought th
e first babe ofreconcilement is laid in its last cradle of hume sweet hume.\" 2)
Most ofthese accounts, however, misrepresent The New Science. Vico specu- lates
that history may operate cyclically, in fact, in a conjectural conclusion sixte
en pages long, appended to a work of four hundred pages; 3 and all of the detail
s with which Tindall clarifies the nature of Vi co's human ages can be found in
the synoptic fourth book of The New Science, a summary which, together with Book
Five, comprises only one-fourth of the entire work.\" It is-and should be-hard
to understand how the Vico portrayed in Joyce studies should have generated \"pa
ssionate interest\" inJoyce long before he began the writing of Ulysses, let alo
ne Pinneaans Wake (JJ, 340). It makes little sense to suppose that the realist w
ho in Ulysses had invested so much care in the portrayal of a single man in a si
ngle city on a single day in history should have ended his career writing a book
in polyglottal puns in order to transmit the news that the same things happened
over and over again in quadrupartite cycles. It is, moreover, difficult to unde
rstand how this received vision of Vico could have caused Joyce to claim that Th
e New Science strongly forced itself on his life or that Vico anticipated and yi
elded) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 175)))
richer insights than Freud; indeed, it is hard to see how the established sense
of Vico bears any relation to Freud at all, or to the night that Pin- neaans Wak
e reconstructs. Yet when Joyce first conceived of writing a book that would trea
t the mind in sleep, he also immediately conceived of Vi co as a prototype whose
work would serve him U], 554). And after Pinneaans Wake was completed, he remar
ked in reply to adverse reviews in the Italian press that the whole book was fou
nded on the work of an Italian thinker (L, III, 463). He seems to have conceived
of The New Science, in fact, as an in- tellectual foundation that would underli
e Pinneaans Wake as the Odyssey had Ulysses; and like the Homeric correspondence
s in that novel, the references to the four ages of Vichian nature internal to P
inneaans Wake seem only to be the superficially most apparent outcroppings of a
conception fundamen- tal to the book's whole treatment of the dark. Joyce's thin
king was never me- chanical, and the imaginative transaction by which he brings
Vico into the Wake proves to be no exception to that rule. Like the Wake, The Ne
w Science was not much read or understood in its own day, and when it finally wa
s understood, it was rightly perceived as a work that threatened both Christian
orthodoxy and the body of mainstream rationalist Enlightenment thinking. Nowaday
s, historians armed with hind- sight-the historian's gift-speak ofVico as a thin
ker who effected a revolu- tion in the study of history and the human sciences n
o less profound than that which Galileo effected in the natural sciences; the En
glish translators of The New Science find in the book \"the germs of all the sci
ences of social change,\" and they speak of historiography as \"Vichian and preVichian.\" 5 The foresightfully radical snap of thought that made Vico unread a
nd misunderstood in his own day-the same decades of the eighteenth century in wh
ich Pope wrote his Essay on Man-was his supposition that our politi- cal forebea
rs, men in a state of nature, were not enlightened rationalists who could agree
on social contracts and protective alliances, but semi- bestial clods who had ba
rely thrown off their fur, speechless giants who rut- ted, bore furry children,
and left them to wallow in their own excrement while they themselves roamed off
to sate their appetites (NS, 192ff; 369ff). This was a conception of history tha
t needed a Darwin before it could be- come at all generally accepted, and it bor
e in itself a host of corollaries no less radical. Well before the appearance of
Hegel's Phenomenoloay of Mind, The New Science necessarily implied that human c
onsciousness was an evo- lutionary variable, changeable with history and society
, and that it de- pended on the whole human past for its definition. The anthrop
oid giants who formed the first human society in Vico-a huddled, cave-dwelling)

knot of men and women who only over generations would begin even dimly to grasp
the concept of a family-these forebears had a consciousness radi- cally alien fr
om our own, largely by having none at all; the people born ten generations later
had a slightly more articulated consciousness than these forebears; and those b
orn later still in Homeric Greece had an even different consciousness yet. To di
scover the genesis of rational consciousness in \"our family furbear\" (132.32)
is one whole struggle of The New Science, which tries scientifically to determin
e how beasts driven into caves by the crash of thunder happened to make themselv
es over generations into learned En- lightenment thinkers capable of building an
d governing the great nations of the world. Vico's premise, of course, completel
y breaks with such forms of Enlightenment belief as Cartesian rationalism and Lo
ckean empiricism, both of which regarded \"Reason\" as an eternal manifestation
of laws of na- ture determined if not by a benevolent deity then by a transcende
ntal order; and implicitly, but not explicitly, it therefore breaks with the wor
ld-view out of which rationalism evolved. 6 The inherent threat that The New Sci
ence posed both to Christian thought and to the newly rising force of rationalis
m will explain why Vico had in- evitably to refer to \"Divine Providence\" in Th
e New Science and also why he preserved sacred history by locating the Hebrew ra
ce outside of the secular world-and essentially beyond the scope of his historyat a region of earth isolated by deserts and centuries from the rest of humanity
; for according to the orthodox thought of his age, Adam came to earth already e
quipped with a language and an innately rational, if fallible, moral sense. As o
p- posed to the sacred history of the Hebrew race, Vico's \"gentile history\" tr
eats of the \"gentile races\"-of Egypt, Greece, Rome, Teutonic Germany, and the
pagan Mid-East-whose forebears are born to earth wrapped in nothing but animal a
ppetites and fears. Although Vico claims that a Divine Providence secretly guide
s the gentile races, his own evidence suggests that the \"famblings\" (582.5 [or
\"families\"]) of which these races are composed merely stumble forward in blin
d, godless \"fumblings\": \"gentile\" history is made by men descended from anim
als, and not always well/ If the academ- ics of Vico's Italy failed to understan
d his work, then, it was because, like Descartes and Locke, they supposed that r
eason and enlightened thought of the kind perceptible in the examples of classic
al Greece and Rome and in the Book of Genesis were natural, transhistorical attr
ibutes of the human mind: Enlightenment thinkers were accustomed to referring to
the sage ex- amples of Homer, Aesop, and other figures of antiquity who transce
nded their historical age; Pope translated the Iliad, LaFontaine brought Aesop)
Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 177)))
into French. In Vico, however, rational consciousness appears in human history o
nly during the Age of Reason, and to find it in the past is to project the moder
n mind backwards over the centuries to a historical age in which people possesse
d their own modes of consciousness and their distinct social forms. 8 The Third
Book of The New Science, \"Discovery of the True Homer,\" illus- trates in detai
l the failures of nonevolutionary reconstructions of the past (NS, 780-914). For
Vico shows here, in ways that richly illuminate Ulysses, how Homer, far from be
ing an enlightened sage, was the exponent of a bar- baric tribalism. It has beco
me a commonplace in the criticism of Ulysses to remark that the novel's Homeric
correspondences belittle Bloom and make him seem laughably unheroic and impotent
when compared to a warrior like Ulysses. Yet the humor that Joyce generates by
making Bloom a modern- day Ulysses is not entirely of his own making; it is also
history's. The Odys- sey as a whole sets up a vital cultural backdrop against w
hich Bloom's twentieth-century heroism and endurance define themselves. At the m
o- ment in Ulysses paralleled to that passage in the Odyssey in which Ulysses re
gains his homeland, Bloom sits still and, rather than wreaking havoc, uses the w
eapons of intelligence, sympathy, and fair judgment;9 arming a bow of reason wit
h arrows of scruples, according to Joyce's schema, he neither mur- ders Molly no
r savages Boylan. Had Joyce not used Ulysses as a sustained foil against whom Bl
oom could be compared in every human article, it would have been almost impossib
le to give cultural perspective to what might seem only at first Bloom's dubious

ly heroic capacity to survive, self- possessed, in the face of modern adversity.

Against a testicle-ripping, nose- slicing hero like Homer's, Bloom bears our re
spect. And the ability of civi- lization to evolve new forms of heroism at the e
xpense of older and more barbarous ones is a power that Vico, a voice at odds wi
th those who have appealed to the sage authority of Homer, emphatically champion
s:) Let us allow [Homer] to tell of the inhuman custom (so contrary to what the
writ- ers on. . . natural law . . . claim to have been eternally practiced among
the nations) which then prevailed among the barbarous peoples of Greece (who ar
e held to have spread humanity throughout the world): to wit, that of poisoning
arrows, . . . [and] of denying burial to enemies slain in battle, leaving their
unburied bodies instead as a prey to dogs and vultures. . . . Nevertheless, if t
he purpose of poetry is to tame the ferocity of the vulgar whose teachers the po
ets are, it was not the part of a wise man, versed in such fierce sensibili ties
and customs, to arouse admiration of them in the vulgar in order that they shou
ld take pleasure in them and be confirmed in them by that pleasure. (NS, 781-82)
As the example of \"The True Homer\" attests, the problem that Vico faced in acc
ounting for the development of the gentile nations \"from next to nothing\" (4.3
6-5.1) was twofold in its complexity. If the men who formed the first social gro
ups \"at the very dawn of protohistory\" possessed no rea- son at all (169.21),
and if all subsequent history were not inherently the product of reasoning indiv
iduals, he had to explain not only the movement that lifted human society out of
caves into Enlightenment Italy, but also the process by which \"our family furb
ear\" created a rational mind \"from next to nothing\" of his own crude power. B
oth problems lie at the heart of The New Science, and Vico begins to address the
m by developing a form of internal dialectic to which Marx would later refer in
Capital and which the Marxist philosopher Georges Sorel would even later apply t
o the theory of the gen- eral strike. 1O Vico's postulate that human society beg
ins when animalistic giants are driven into caves by the terrifying sound of thu
nder might have taken any number of forms. Had Vico our knowledge of the \"new s
cience\" of animal evolution, for instance, he might have begun his history with
a picture of apes seeking refuge from the jungle. As the Wake likes to put it,
giving an evolutionary intonation to a music hall song in deference to Vico and
Darwin both, \"The Sister of the Wife of the Wild Man from Borneo Has Just Come
to Town\" (130.22-24, 331.34-36, 345.4-5, 382.24-26, 415.7-8, 481.33- 35, 5 02 .
26 -27; U, 380). Since Vico finds innumerable giants and thunder-gods in the ea
rliest myths and human records, however, he puts the originating human moment in
those terms (NS, 193, 301, 380) .11 The estab- lishment of coarsely gesturing a
nd babbling animal families in caves at once sets up a crude class structure dif
ferentiating those who own caves from those yet unsettled vagrants who do not, a
nd the social tension resulting from that simple difference is never to relax in
the course of Vico's history; indeed, it is only to grow more complex and entan
gled. 12 This would explain, of course, how Marx could find in Vico a prototype
for his own more refined \"new science\" of dialectical materialism. And it also
helps to explain how Joyce could find Vico's historical vision compat- ible wit
h his own, since it operates with much more sophistication and in- tricacy than
the comparisons with Jung and its general treatment in Joyce criticism would sug
gest. Achieving an inclusiveness that Joyce claimed not to find either in Freud'
s theory of consciousness, or in the socialist and anar- chist literature in whi
ch he was widely read, The New Science gave Joyce a vision of a recurring patter
ning in social history that at once respected the unique problems and conditions
of successive social eras, yet also isolated,) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 179)
as Marx did, social forces that manifested themselves in different cultures, in
different material settings, and in different periods of history. Joyce also und
oubtedly admired Vico's peculiarly modern willingness to admit total unreason al

ong with reason as a motivating force of history. Mainstream rationalist thinkin

g bred in the European social community a hypocritical nineteenth-century politi
cs verbally capable of asserting its al- liance with Reason and its aspiration t
o rise onward and upward to work out the beast, but in fact capable of creating
social conditions that would produce in Ireland, for instance, a famine describe
d as \"the worst event of its kind recorded in European history at a time of pea
ce.\" 13 This is essen- tially the politics described in that section of the Wak
e which Joyce called \"Haveth Childers Everywhere\" (PP.S32-S4), where HCE, stut
tering con- stantly with guilt, dubiously justifies the aspirant importance of h
is work to his family by telling the whole story of civilization and including a
mong his accomplishments a rather large number of mistakes: the slums of London
(pp.S43-4S), the pollution of the Liffey (p. 550), and the ambiguously pro- duct
ive rape of Ireland (p. 547). Nature gives Vico's man the mind of an un- conscio
us animal; Vico's history is the process by which man, of his own blind, stumbli
ng power, slowly builds that natural mind toward conscious- ness, interdependent
ly with language and civil institutions. Here, too, Vico's vision of history cer
tainly appealed to Joyce, because it extended into social history processes that
Joyce himself had sought to trace in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, w
here, as Stephen's personality evolves in time from infancy to young adulthood,
the language and con- sciousness through which he perceives and defines himself
also evolve inter- dependently, all as aspects of one another. Joyce would also
have found in Vico, then, a vision of historical growth as intricate as the visi
on of the personal growth that he represented in A Portrait-the struggle of \"a
bat- like soul waking to the consciousness of itself in darkness and secrecy and
loneliness. . .\" (P, 183). The phrase, descriptive both of Ireland's and of St
ephen's individual development in A Portrait, defines equally well the evo- luti
onary development of human history in The New Science. It is not en- tirely clea
r, in fact, whether Joyce came to admire Vico because he found the vision of hum
an growth presented in A Portrait confirmed in The New Science; or whether it wa
s Vico who helped cause Joyce to scrap Stephen Hero and to rework it into the fo
rm that would come to be A Portrait. All we know of the original transaction tha
t would cause Joyce to champion The New Science throughout his literary career a
nd through all the pages of the Wake is that he first read and expressed passion
ate interest in Vi co during his) 180) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
years in Trieste (1904-15); that he worked hard on Stephen Hero, abandoned it co
mpletely, and rewrote it as A Portrait during the same period; 14 and that Vico'
s vision of growth of the soul of mankind shares many affinities with Joyce's vi
sion of the growth of the soul.) POETIC WISDOM) This comparison suggests a final
radical corollary to the propositions on which The New Science is predicated-th
e corollary most interesting to a reader of the Wake. Since Vi co argues that th
e language, consciousness, so- ciety, and problems of any moment in history deve
lop as consequences of decisions made in a historical past in which the pressure
s of the immediate moment far outweigh those of any speculative future; and sinc
e he assumes that human history begins in the minds of bestial giants in a state
of nature, he puts himself into the difficult position of having to account for
\"social\" choices made by irrational beings who cannot know what \"choice\" an
d \"so- ciety\" are. If the language, consciousness, and civil institutions of E
urope grew by a process of internal dialectic out of forests in which barbaric,
ter- rified animals scrambled for shelter at the sound of thunder, then a knowledge of the process by which European civilization came to exist depended on a
knowledge of how those wholly irrational beings thought. His enter- prise, then,
is identical to that of Finneaans Wake in that it entails a willed a bandonment
of reason and a sympathetic entry into unconsciousness:) But the nature of our
civilized minds is so detached from the senses. . . by ab- stractions correspond
ing to all the abstract terms our languages abound in, and so refined by the art
of writing, and as it were spiritualized by the use of numbers. . . that it is
naturally beyond our power to form the vast image of [the world perceived by the
first men]. . . . It is equally beyond our power to enter into the vast imagina

- tion of those first men, whose minds were not in the least abstract, refined,
or spiri- tualized, because they were entirely immersed in the senses, buffeted
by the pas- sions, buried in the body. . . . we can scarcely understand, still l
ess imagine, how those first men thought who founded gentile humanity. (NS,378))
The problem that Vico addresses in this passage is not one that he despairs of
solving; indeed, in the central and most lengthy book of The New Science, \"Poet
ic Wisdom,\" he tries to reconstruct the \"scarcely imaginable\" minds of those
aboriginal first men in order to account for the history that grows out of them.
\"Poetic Wisdom\" is the linch-pin of Vico's history, the studied and labored p
iece of evidence upon which he builds his science.) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\
Our treatment [of history] must take its start from the time these creatures beg
an to think humanly. In their monstrous savagery and unbridled bestial freedom t
here was no means to tame the former or bridle the latter but the frightful thou
ght of some divinity, the fear of whom . . . is the only powerful means of reduc
ing to duty a liberty gone wild. To discover the way in which this first human t
hinking arose in the gentile world, we encountered exasperating difficulties whi
ch have cost us the research of a good twenty years. [We had] to descend from th
ese human and refined natures of ours to those quite wild savage natures, which
we cannot at all imagine and can comprehend only with great effort. (NS, 338)) I
n a direct and substantial way, the mind that]oyce sought to reconstruct in Pinn
eaans Wake was equivalent to the aboriginal mind that Vico sought to comprehend
in Book II of The New Science; what Freud called \"the dream- work\" and \"the u
nconscious,\" Vico, lacking psychoanalytic terminology, simply called \"poetic w
isdom\" and \"ignorance\":) But these first men who later became the princes of
the gentile nations, must have done their thinking under the strong impulsion of
violent passions, as beasts do. . . . Hence poetic wisdom, the first wisdom of
the gentile world, must have begun with a metaphysics not rational and abstract
like that of learned men now, but felt and imagined, as that of these first men
must have been, who, without power of ratioci- nation, were all robust sense and
vigorous imagination. This metaphysics was their poetry, a faculty born with th
em (for they were furnished by nature with these senses and imaginations); born
of their ignorance of causes, for ignorance, the mother of wonder, made everythi
ng wonderful to men who were ignorant of every- thing. . . . (NS, 340, 375; see
also 399)) In order to substantiate his dialectical account of history, essentia
lly, Vico had to invent an elaborate depth psychology-a \"metaphysics,\" in his
phrase-that would enable him to comprehend the unconsciousness out of which men
made social choices \"in the deplorable obscurity of the begin- nings\" of the h
uman world (NS, 344):) But in the night of thick darkness enveloping the earlies
t antiquity, so remote from ourselves, there shines the eternal and never failin
g light of a truth beyond all question: that the world of civil society has cert
ainly been made by men, and that its principles are therefore to be found within
the modifications of our own human mind. Whoever reflects on this cannot but ma
rvel that the philosophers should have bent all their energies to the study of t
he world of nature, which, since God made it, He alone knows; and that they shou
ld have neglected the study of the world of na- tions, or civil world, which, si
nce men made it, men could come to know. This aber- ration was a consequence of
that infirmity of the human mind by which, immersed and buried in the body, it n
aturally inclines to take notice of bodily things [i.e., the physical universe],
and finds the effort to attend to itselftoo laborious. . . . (NS, 331)) 182) JO
When Vi co proposes to work his way back into the unconscious mind of these firs
t men by discovering \"its principles in the modifications of our own human mind
,\" he is not simply proposing-as the psychoanalytic move- ment would two centur
ies later-that a stream of primitive, infantile irra- tionality, reflected in th
e myths and fables of the past, underruns our mod- ern civil consciousness. His

vision is primarily historical. If consciousness is a man-made property that cha

nges in historical time, then each individ- ual owes the way in which he thinks
to the generation of his parents; yet his parents owe their thinking and behavio
r to the generation of their parents; and so forth, in a chain extending back to
the beginnings of the gentile world. Those crude choices made by Vico's giants,
then, inform all minds born out of them; and the terrifying irrationalities and
encaved social struc- tures that they stumbled into still perpetuate themselves
, despite the trans- formations of generations and generations, \"in the modific
ations of our own human minds\"-\"the traditions of all dead generations weighin
g like an Alp on the brains of the living,\" in one of Marx's psychoanalytic phr
asesY This conception of history as a force funneling into and determining anyone's life in the present rang particularly true to Joyce, who was born into a f
amily and a culture morally structured by a Catholicism genetically aris- ing ou
t of the Middle Ages. \"Like a gentile man,\" too (150.26), he was born into a n
ation whose political life had been determined by actions militantly undertaken
in the twelfth century, when Henry II, asking the English-born pope of the Vatic
an for permission to take in hand the immoral Irish, made the city of Dublin the
eternal property of the citizens of Bristol. 16 Joyce was born into a culture w
hose social structures were shaped by the infinitely inheritable superstition of
racism, a habit of mind passed on from parent to child over generations and ext
ending backwards through linguistic history into a time when the verb \"to like\
" was synonymous with the preposition \"like,\" and when to \"like\" someone mea
nt that one found the likeness of his own race and blood in them. l ? Joyce was
born into a family and a religion that implanted in him a fear of thunder so gre
at that throughout his life he refused to live in cities known for the frequency
of their thunderstorms and hid in closets, as Vico's giants did in caves, whene
ver thunder rent the sky; it was Vico's primitive man who bequeathed to generati
on after generation the fear of celestial punishment that found its way into Joy
ce's consciousness. And it was Vico's giants who bequeathed to the minds of all
human genera- tions after them the social unit of the encaved private family. Tw
entieth-century psychoanalysis proposes to isolate and cure the irra-) Vico's \"
Night of Darkness\ 183)))
tionally disturbed components of personality by analyzing the fears and fix- ati
ons inherited from parents in an impressionable, irrational infantile past. Vico
's axiomatic observation that rationality is a man-made structure his- torically
evolved out of animal unreason will suggest why Joyce would have regarded Freud
ian theory as a diminution of Vico's insights. Since The New Science sees the co
nsciousness into which one grows as the product of a his- torical development th
at begins in the terror of thunderstruck \"furbear[s],\" it complementarily impl
ies that the unconscious conflicts rifting modern minds and societies are histor
ically transmitted over much more than one generation. The individual cannot pur
ge himself of neurotic unhappiness by rethinking his familial past alone, becaus
e his parents are largely inno- cent transmitters of a language and an ideology
determined by a history that transcends them and himself both. Fully to understa
nd the irrationali- ties understructuring his mind, he has to exorcise his paren
ts' parents, and his parents' parents' parents, and the \"first men, stupid, ins
ensate, and hor- rible beasts,\" who laid down the foundations of human civil li
fe and con- sciousness (NS, 374). As a Vichian who had already extensively exami
ned his relations with his mother and father in A Portrait and Ulysses, the Joyc
e of Pinneaans Wake is as deeply interested in the remote determinants of neu- r
oses as in the immediate ones. Action according to this psychological model is e
vident both in Joyce's life and in his representations of it: \"tapping his brow
\" in the hour of his therapeutic release from the past in Ulysses, and mutterin
g that \"in here it is I must kill the priest and king,\" Stephen Deda- Ius has
to lay to rest not only the irrationalities inherited from a devoutly self-abneg
ating Catholic mother and a self-destructive, jobless father, but also those inh
erited from the medieval Catholicism and the English eco- nomic policy that made
possible that mother and that father (U, 589). In order to understand how that

Church and that feudal economic behavior originated, Joyce in turn had to try to
understand, in Pinneaans Wake, the \"furbear[s]\" buried in the darkness of Vic
o's aboriginality. All of history is in one's parents; and the Oedipal struggle
is with the whole of the past. This understanding so fundamentally informs The N
ew Science that it shapes Vico's whole prose style, whose texture is as dense, p
unning, and polyglottal as that of Pinneaans Wake. In Vico's \"gentile history,\
" man cre- ates over generations his own human nature-and exactly as he also cre
ates human nations. Since human nature and nations evolve interdependently with
language, Vico conveys their commutual coming-to-be, their nasci- mento, by weav
ing through The New Science an assemblage of words originat- ing in the same abo
riginal root *aen- (\"to come to be\-whose") meaning) 18 4) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE
is also its evolution. Uttered in the darkness of prehistory by descendants of V
ico's first men, this syllable gen erates over gen erations, and in all the nati
ons of the gen tile world, a diverse vocabulary whose meaning is the gen esis o
f human nat ure. (Some of its English outgrowths are diagrammed in figure 7.1.)
On the evolution of vocables like this, and the freight they carry, Joyce succin
ctly comments in Finneaans Wake that \"the world, mind, is, was and will be writ
ing its own wrunes for ever, man, on all matters that fall under the ban of our
infrarational senses\" (19.35-20. I) -where the ap- positional equations of \"wo
rld,\" \"mind,\" \"man,\" and his \"runes\" replicate the vision of The New Scie
nce. An aspect of his science, as the etymology of Vico's \"gentility\" will att
est, is the conceptual identity of \"nationality\" and \"genitality\": originati
ng in the same source, both words embody the same tensions. It is for this reaso
n, in Pinneaans Wake, that HCE's encounter with the \"cad\" (35.11; 35.1-36.4 [<
Fr. cadet, \"younger son\"]) takes place in the shadows of the Wellington Memor
ial (36.18), the dream-displaced scene of his sexual \"crime\"; the conflict und
erlying this encounter, underlined by references to nationalist and generational
struggles, is localized in HCE's genitalia. In The New Science and Finneaans Wa
ke, national and genera- tional struggles are also genital struggles, because th
ey all bring patriarchal authorities and those subjugated to such authority into
visceral conflict over issues of power and potency. Since Vico's \"Poetic Wisdo
m\" in its own way strives rationally to recon- struct the minds of those irrati
onal first men whose animal instincts began to determine the subsequent evolutio
n of history and human conscious- ness, it encompasses the psychoanalytic work t
hat Freud achieved in recon- structing the infantile mind whose fears and pleasu
re determine the shape of personal history. Here, too, Joyce learned much more f
rom The New Sci- ence than a principle of eternal recurrence. Vico gave him the
dream-work by which he spun out Pinneaans Wake. What Vico called \"Poetic Wisdom
,\" Freud explained two hundred years later as the primary process of the un- co
nscious. But Vico also anticipates Freud, and ultimately contributes to Ulysses
and the Wake by drawing a rich fund of insight from the observation and the memo
ry of human infancy. In trying to understand how the first men thought and orien
ted themselves towards others in a world void of society, he naturally seeks to
fathom the wholly unformed mind of the child. Be- cause Vico's first men are bor
n into a state of nature and differ from their modern descendants largely in lac
king the benefits of a long-evolved lan- guage and consciousness instilled in ch
ildren by the process of education, Vi co axiomatically assumes that these peopl
e thought as infants and chil-) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 18 5)))
gentile kind kin gentle 1 kindness gentility gentleness kind genteel gentleman k
indred) gentry t) L. L. gen6/i (pagan)) M.E. M.E. kind . kynde gentn(s)e M.E. ki
nd(e J kynd(e) 1 o . E . gecynde (natural. innate) a. E. cynd gecynd(e) (nature,
race, birth)) L. gentiIis (of the same clan)) Germ. *kundjaz (family, race)) M.
E. king t) a.E. cyning (king)) a.E.) cynn (race, family)) Germ. *kundiz (natural
. native)) genitals) genius ingenious genial) ingenuity) pregnancy genuine natur
e f natural progen\037 progemtor pregnant) nation nativity innate + native natal

) national naive nationality naivete nationalism) natality prenatal neonatal noe

l) L. natio (breed; tribe related by birth)) O.Fr. naif natif) a.Fr. no(u)e/ nae
/) t) L. praegnantis (heavy with child)) L. nata]js dies (day of birth)) L.) Ger
m. *kuningaz (son of royal kin)) Germ. *kunjam (family)) L. gens, gentis (belong
ing together by birth; clan de. scended through male line from common ancestor)
*gn-yo- \\\"U) *gn-) L. praegnas) L. (g) nasci, present participle (g) nascens,
past participle (g) natus *gnj- (to be born) t) *gna-sko- \\) *gna-) genital gen
itality genitive) L. genuinus (inborn, innate, authentic)) L. progenies ( descen
t, descendants)) L. casus genitivus (case of origin) L. genita]js r ( creative,
fruitful) L. genitivus (of birth)) \\) L. genui, gignere, past participle genitu
s (to beget, produce) \\) Figure 7.1. Etymological chart: *gen-. The Nature of t
he Generation of the Gentile Nations: \"the sibspeeches of all mankind have foli
ated (earth seizing them!) from the root of some funner's stotter all the sounde
st sense to be found immense\" (96.30-32) (\"sibspeeches\": \"subspecies\" of re
lated [\"sib\"] tongues; \"some funner's stotter\"; \"some funny stutter\" [Ger.
Stotter, \"stutter\" + Nor. Sam- fundets Stotter, \"Pillars of Society\"])) *gi
-gn-) geniality engine congeniality { engineer ir Fr \302\253 M.E.) It) engin t)
a.Fr. engin (skill, inven- tion)) L. ingeniosus) Med. L. ingeniator (contri ver
)) L. genia]js (of birth or generation; nuptial. joyous)) L. ing (fran innoc) L.
ingenia (contrive) L. (il in: ho) L. genius (innate spirit; native intelligence
; spirit of procreation) '\\) *gen-yo- \)
gnosis) nobility narrative) know) generate generator generati ve regenerate dege
nerate engender) recognize acquaintance gonads /to cognition t notion , gnostic
recognition f acquaint notice gnosticism recognizance agnostic ignorance cogniza
nt diagnosis ignorant cognizance prognosis ignore) t a. Fr. . acointer L. cogm60
i (knowledge, L . study) . notJO . r (a becommg acquainted) L. recognoscere, L.
accognoscere recognitum (to know (to recognize) perfectly) L. cognoscere, cogni
tum (to get to know, learn)) generous m t gender I generosity I genre minal gene
nc minate) generation) genealogy) genus) general generality generalize) cosmogon
y theogony -gony) a.Fr. genereux a.Fr. genre (kind. sort)) a.Fr. engenderer) L.
generosus (of noble birth; excellent)) L. generalis (belonging to one kind; rela
ting to all)) 'rminare ,prout) 1) L. generare, gen era tus (to engender, beget))
Gr. .gonia (generation)) rmen ut, fetus, Jot)) is igin)) L. genus, generis (rac
e. species, kind)) Gr. genea (race)) Gr. gonos (birth. begetting. generation) r)
*gon-o-) \037en-men- \037) proto-I ndo- European ==---- *gn-, *gen- (to beget.
bring forth. conceive)) noble narration narrate) can) gnomon gnomic) i M.E. unc(
o) uth (strange. unknown) t) M.E. acqueynten acointen) a.E. uncuth (unknown)) a.
E. cunnan (to know how to; be able)) Gr. gnomon (one who knows)) L. narrare (to
tell. relate)) a.E. cuth (known)) Gr. gnosis (knowledge)) a.E. cnawan (to know)
t) Germ. *kunth-) Germ. * know.) L. nobilis, gnobjJis (knowable. known. famous))
Germ. *kunnan) L. (g) noscere, (g) notus (to get to know. become acquainted)) L
. ignorare (not to know. disregard) !) L. (g) narus (knowing, expert) 1) Gr. gig
noskein (to know)) *gn;;J-) *gn6-dhli-) *gno-)))
dren do (NS, 2II-16): according to fears, pleasures, and instincts. What dis- ti
nguishes the newborn child of the modern world from \"the first peoples, who wer
e the children of the human race\" is the weight of history preceding his birth
(NS, 498). It is a long, complex history whose main lessons the newborn child le
arns in the first few years of life when his parents teach him, as in the openin
g pages of A Portrait, language, morality, identity, fam- ily, and both the supe
rstitions and the achievements of millennia (NS, 336). But the mind of an infant
not yet tutored into the orders of language, rea- son, and social customs-not y
et able to distinguish anything apart from its pleasures and fears-that is the m
ind which nature gives to \"the children of nascent mankind\" in Vico's Science,
the mind out of which his aboriginal giants crudely act and \"reason\" (NS, 376
). In the psychogenesis that Joyce derived from Vico, \"our family furbears\" sp
ent their entire lifetimes in a state of unconsciousness, and it was out of this

unformed, infantile mind that they began to generate the utterances and groupin
gs from which our own language and civilization grew. In \"Po- etic Wisdom,\" Vi
co constructs an elaborate psychology of the Unconscious, or \"Ignorance,\" to e
xplain the dreamlike ways in which this infantile and history-originating mind w
orked and made choices. His reconstruction be- gins wi th a willed, imaginary ab
andonment both of rationalism and of the man-made Newtonian order in which ratio
nalism found its object:) From these first men, stupid, insensate, and horrible
beasts, all philosophers and philologians should have begun their investigations
of the wisdom of the ancient gentiles. . . . And they should have begun [not wi
th physics, but] with metaphysics, which seeks its proofs not in the external wo
rld but within the modifications of the mind of him who meditates it. For since
this world of nations has certainly been made by men, it is within these modific
ations that its principles should have been sought. And human nature, so far as
it is like that of the animals, carries with it this property, that the senses a
re its sole way of knowing things. (NS, 374)) \"In the early childhood of the wo
rld,\" however, this sensory \"knowing of things\" is not perceptual, but animal
and instinctive (NS, 69) : for \"men at first feel without perceiving, then the
y perceive with a troubled and agi- tated spirit, finally they reflect with a cl
ear mind\" (NS, 218). Men void of the learned capacity to perceive, who sense no
thing but their own feelings, can only stand as giants in proportion to all the
rest of the unborn world (\"the human mind, because of its indefinite nature, wh
erever it is lost in ignorance makes itself the rule of the universe in respect
of everything it does not know\" [NS, 180-81]). \"Born in ignorance of causes, i
gnorance making everything wonderful to men ignorant of everything,\" the first
of Vico's \"giantle\" humanity (509.19 [\"gentile,\" \"giant\"]) accordingly resemble the unconscious hero of Pinneaans Wake-an \"overgrown babeling\" who lie
s \"fum in mow\" (6.31, S96.6)-by virtue of a gigantic egoism that knows in the
world nothing but sensation interior to the body. Vico's \"gi- antle[s]\" move o
rganically through the Wake because they have the sen- sibilities both of Joyce'
s unconscious hero and of unconscious human in- fants, \"in [whose] mental life
. . . today,\" according to Freud, \"we can still detect the same archaic factor
s which were once dominant generally in the primeval days of human civilization,
\" 18 There are now two ways of regarding the genesis of the world into which th
is infantile mind awakens. In one, invented by Newton and upheld by sci- entific
rationalism, the world begins when a God immanent in nature occa- sions an astr
onomical Big Bang that hurls the inanimate physical matter of billions of galaxi
es outward into space to form, over eons and in a single star-system, a planet w
hose molecules will providentially start replicating themselves, in turn to gene
rate animate matter capable of reproduction, and then self-consciousness, and th
en the inspired writing of revelatory books like Genesis: creation is already th
ere, completely ordered and wait- ing to be known as the infant grows. In the se
cond version, told in Genesis and upheld both in Pinneaans Wake and in Vico's Ne
w Science of nescience, \"the world in its infancy\" begins when a space-pervadi
ng spirit named \"I AM\" (the Hebrew JHVH) starts gathering the appearances of n
ature out of a dark and void formlessness, paramount among them the form of an a
borigi- nal man who becomes capable of naming animals, shaping the world, in- ve
nting and learning concepts like \"matter,\" and evolving over time a mind like
Newton's, trained in the pragmatic fictions of mechanical materialism: creation
happens dynamically, from the inside out, as the world continually unfolds in \"
the modifications of our human mind.\" If the first of these gene- ses regards a
s primary the knowing of external matter, through science \302\253 L. scio, \"I
know\,") Vico's genesis regards as primary the not-knowing of the human mind, wh
ose coming-to-be through nescience (\"I AM\") will ul- timately generate the man
-made constructs of science and reason. In words taken from what Vico called his
\" 'new science in negative form,' the form, that is, of a destructive criticism
of existing theories\":19) . . . as rational metaphysics teaches that man becom
es all things by understanding them (homo inteJ]jaendo fit omnia), this imaginat

ive metaphysics shows that man becomes all things by not understanding them (hom
o non intelJiaendo fit omnia), and perhaps the latter proposition is truer than
the former, for when man under- stands, he extends his mind and takes in the thi
ngs, but when he does not under-) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 18 9)))
stand, he makes the things ou t of himself and becomes them by transforming hims
elf into them. (NS, 405)) The \"giantle\" world ofVico's New Science, then, orig
inates exactly as the world originates in the Book of Genesis, and exactly as it
always and only originates in the minds of human infants. \"Lost in ignorance,\
" \"buried in the body and immersed in the senses,\" these impercipient, space-p
ervading giants, informed by jov(e) or j(eh)ov(ah), rise from an unconsciousness
that only knows \"I AM\" into \"gentile\" human \"nature\" by gathering from da
rk formlessness the etymologically related property of physical \"na- ture\"-ani
mating it and making it sensible according to anthropocentric principles of infa
ntile psychology that Vico elaborates throughout \"Poetic Wisdom\" (see NS, 1807, 2II-12):) The most sublime labor of poetry is to give sense and passion to in
sensate things [as is] characteristic of children. . . . This philologico-philos
ophical axiom proves to us that in the world's childhood men were by nature subl
ime poets. (NS, 186)) Since Vico's aboriginal man actively creates the world by
\"making things out of himself,\" \"the first nature\" of gentile humanity in Th
e New Science is \"a poetic or creative nature, which we may be allowed to call
divine\": \"in the world's childhood\" of Vico's Divine Age, \"men [are] by natu
re poets,\" and \"the world in its infancy [is] composed of poetic nations\" (NS
, 187, 216 [italics mine]). The key terms here-as in all of these quotations and
\"Po- etic Wisdom\" as a whole-are \"nature\" (or \"nations\") and \"poetry\":
Vi co employs the latter in its etymological sense of \"creating\" or \"making\"
(from the Gr. poiesis) rather than in the sense of literary production, since t
he giants who people \"the world in its infancy\" know no language or writing (\
"infancy,\" etymologically, < L. infans [\"not speaking\"]). Just as the limits
of his culture's vocabulary cause Vico to adopt the term \"ignorance\" to de- no
te \"unconsciousness,\" so he uses the term \"poetic wisdom\" to denote the mani
fold forms of unconscious thinking that Freud would study more spe- cialisticall
y in his work on infantile sexuality. Treating of \"metaphor, \" \"syn- echdoche
,\" \"metonymy,\" \"allegory,\" and\" myth,\" rather than of\" condensa- tion, \
" \"displacement,\" and \"indirect representation,\" Vico's \"Poetic Wisdom\" is
a form of Freudian dreamwork. Organic to the minds of \"the children of nascent
mankind,\" poetic wisdom is the unconscious wisdom into which his first men ris
e from their nescience; it is the unconscious wisdom out of which Enlightenment
Europe and its institutions dialectically grow in Vico's social history.) 19\302
In order to explain how this poetic wisdom arises in giants aboriginally \"ignor
ant of everything\" but the sensation of their bodies, Vico necessarily undertak
es a reconstruction of unconscious memory comparable to Freud's; for \"the world
in its infancy\" is a \"time empty of facts which must really have been full of
them\" (NS, 735). Not unlike Freud, he attributes the early genesis of human na
ture to \"the terror of present power,\" learned with the crash of thunderbolts
which rudely teach Vico's infantile giant that he does not fill the universe (NS
, 382). Generating the internal perception offear in a body aboriginally all app
etite, this external sound operates like the thunder of the patriarchal \"NO!\"
in Freud's accounts of the sexual organiza- tion and toilet-training of modern i
nfants:) But the greatest and most important part of physics is the contemplatio
n of the nature of man. . . . the founders of gentile humanity in a certain sens
e gener- ated and produced in themselves the proper human form in its two aspect
s: . . . by means offrightful religions and terrible paternal powers and sacred
ablutions they brought forth from their giant bodies the form of our just corpor
ature, and. . . by discipline. . . they brought forth from their bestial minds t
he form of our human mind. (NS,692)) Poetic wisdom arises in the minds ofVico's

aboriginal giants, then, together with the learning of corporeal control and the
human body's limited dimen- sions. Through poetic wisdom man creates his own bo
dy, which is not im- manent in the physical universe, and which differs from the
bodies of ani- mals because it is humanly made and organized:) In the prevailin
g best usage [the Latin verb educere] applies to the education of the spirit and
[the Latin verb educare] to that of the body. . . . education began to bring fo
rth in a certain way the form of the human soul which had been completely sub- m
erged in the huge bodies of the giants, and began likewise to bring forth the fo
rm of the human body itself in its just dimensions from the disproportionate gia
nt bodies. (NS,520)) If this kind of education reduces the space-pervading immen
sity of Vico's infantile first men by subjecting them to self-imposed disciplina
ry laws, however, it compensatorily liberates, through a form of \"sublimation,\
" a human nature that will generate the world of nations and civil institutions:
) Then, between the powerful restraints of frightful superstition and the goadin
g stimuli of bestial lust . . . [these giants] had to hold in [check] the impetu
s of the bodily motion oflust. Thus they began to use human liberty, which consi
sts in hold- ing in check the motions of concupiscence and giving them another d
irection; for since this liberty does not come from the body, whence comes the c
oncupiscence, it must come from the mind and is therefore properly human. (NS, 1
098)) Vieo's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 19 1)))
In his reconstruction of the mind at the origins both ofsocial history and of pe
rsonal history, Vico accordingly developed principles of \"infantile regres- sio
n\" that Freud would elaborate two centuries later in his accounts of the dreamw
ork of sleep. Vico discovered in his aboriginal first men the \"Freud- ian\" pri
nciples of parental determination, dependency, and oedipality:) The nature of ch
ildren is such that by the ideas and names of the men, women, and things they ha
ve known first, they afterward apprehend and name all the men, women, and things
that bear any resemblance or relation to the first. (NS,206)) He discovered tha
t in infancy a child has no solidly established sexual iden- tity and therefore
thinks, in a kind of promiscuous abandonment allowing the free association of ev
eryone and everything, out of a mind \"polymor- phously perverse,\" as the first
men of \"giantle\" humanity also did:) . . . Orpheus then founds the humanity o
f Greece on the examples of an adulterous Jove, a Juno who is the mortal enemy o
fthe virtues ofthe Herculeses. . . . Nor is this unrestrained licentiousness of
the gods satisfied by forbidden intercourse with women: Jove burns with wicked l
ove for Ganymede; indeed this lust reaches the point of bestiality and Jove, tra
nsformed into a swan, lies with Leda. This licen- tiousness, practiced on men an
d beasts, was precisely the infamous evil of the out- law world [the world of th
e first men, who lived before the creation of civil law]. (NS, 80)) Finally, in
an age whose philological authorities were trying to discover how the languages
of the gentile nations could have developed historically from the Hebrew spoken
by Adam in the Garden of Eden, The New Science advanced the radical proposition
that human language had its beginnings in the minds of infantile first men who g
rowled, whined, and whimpered in pleasure and pain like animals in caves (NS, 63
); for the languages of Vi co's gentile humanity, their beginnings found \"in th
e modifications of our own human mind,\" originate not simply in historical time
and geographical space, but also-as always and only-inside the bodies of human
infants: \"the first dull-witted men were moved to utterance only by very violen
t pas- sions, which are naturally expressed in a very loud voice\" (NS, 461); \"
ar- ticulate language began to develop by way of onomatopoiea, through which we
still find children happily expressing themselves\" (NS, 447):) Men vent great p
assions by breaking into song, as we observe in the most grief- stricken and the
most joyful. . . . it follows that the founders of the gentile nations, having
wandered about in the wild state of dumb beasts and being therefore slug- gish,
were inexpressive save under the impulse of violent passions, and formed their f
irst languages by singing.) 19 2) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))

Languages must have begun with monosyllables, as in the present abundance of art
iculated words into which children are now born they begin with monosyllables in
spite of the fact that in them the fibers of the organ necessary to articulate
speech are very flexible. (NS, 229-231)) Vico's account of human genesis anticip
atorily encompasses Freud's, fi- nally, by understanding that human consciousnes
s, language, and reality genetically unfold from inside the bodies of infants. A
lthough the decorous civilization of Vi co's Europe had begun learning to devalu
e the human body, nothing in the universe known to Vico's gentile man ever happe
ns outside of its space, within which the human world and its knowing aboriginal
ly and always come to be. Since the infantile thinking of Vi co's first men is e
quiva- lently the unconsciousness of the body not yet tutored into human know- i
ng, the psychology of unconsciousness that Vico develops in The New Sci- ence al
so anticipates the account of infantile sexuality given in Freud's theories of g
enitality. But Joyce, who described the secret pressures of the stomach on ratio
nal thinking in the \"Lestrygonians\" episode of Ulysses, the patterns of econom
ic management imposed on consciousness by the evacua- tory organs in \"Calypso,\
" and the evolved forms of human enterprise made possible by the biological endo
wment of lungs on mankind in \"Aeolus,\" probably preferred to Freud's theories
of genital organization Vico's broader account of how \"gentile\" human nature r
olled up into the head not simply out of the loins but out of the entire body of
his aboriginal infant giants. In Vico's nascimento, the thinking of the body be
gins not simply the history of personality, but the history of the West; and \"g
enitality,\" in this history, is only a late and limited conceptual outgrowth of
the broader force of a \"gen- tile nature.\ A \"GIANTLE\ If nothing in Vico's g
entile history happens outside of this body, everything in Pinneaans Wake only h
appens inside of it. The hero of Finneaans Wake, losing the historically evolved
property of consciousness when he falls asleep, spends the night \"in the state
of nature\" from which Vico's original men arose (49.24-25), so to become \"our
family furbear\" (132.32 [\"bear\" now because he is in hibernation]), \"Ignora
nt of everything,\" he too lies \"buried in the body\" and \"immersed in the sen
ses\" like a space-pervading giant. As incapable of abstraction as Vico's first
people, emptied of all learned knowing, he too possesses no ordered memory of a
historical past at) Vieo's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 193)))
all. Incapable in turn of perceiving anything in the world outside of his own bo
dy, his body fills all sensed space, the infantile and unconscious way of thinki
ng internal to it reordering in its own form of \"poetic wisdom\" the dimly reca
lled residue of the wakeful world. The intense process of reading by which Joyce
elicited a dreamwork from Vico's \"Poetic Wisdom\" had to be one of the great l
iterary encounters of Joyce's life; for Vico also gave Joyce a richly articulate
d account of the genesis of language that enabled him to evolve a reconstruction
of the human night. The primary materials filling HCE's mind immediately after
his fall into sleep in the first chapter of Pinneaans Wake indirectly represent,
in images of burial and entombment, the paralysis of his fallen body and the de
ath of his consciousness; but the psychology of unconsciousness of Vico's \"Poet
ic Wisdom\" in turn caused Joyce to overlay his hero's fall with a regressive hu
ndred-lettered word expressive of the thunder that terrified Vico's giants (3.15
-17). Reconstructing the return of its \"retrospectable fearfurther\" (288.F7) t
o the condition of Vico's aboriginal men, the first chapter of the Wake is dense
ly clustered with images of giants and \"astoneaged\" cave men (18.ls)-Neanderth
al men (18.22, 19.25), Cromagnon men (20.7), Heidel- berg men (18.23), Mousteria
n men (15.33), Piltdown men (10.30), and the paleolithic characters \"Mutt and J
ute\" (16.10-IIff. [\"mute and deaf\"]), who babble and stammer imperceptively l
ike Vico's men, and who earn their names from the comic-strip characters Mutt an
d Jeff, modern counter- parts of the pictographic cave paintings of the \"astone
aged.\" The Wake's opening chapter dwells insistently on images of the giants of
aboriginal myth because its sleeping giant is one of them: the chapter draws he
avily on myths of origin provided in the Book of Genesis (4.18-5.4 and passim),
the Egyptian Book of the Dead (26.17-20), the Irish Annals of the Four Masters (

13.20- 14. 15), the Icelandic Eddas (14.16), and other accounts of the world's c
oming-to-be. Insofar as HCE's fall into sleep buries him within the matter of an
\"unknown body,\" his unconsciousness resembles that internal to all the tombs
of the world, although foremost among these are ones evocative of paleolithic se
pulture: cromlechs like those at Carnac and Stonehenge (5.31), megalithic circle
s like those seen in the Rollright Stones of England (5.30-31), kistvaens (5.31)
, menhirs (2S.II-12), and, above all, prehistoric barrow after barrow referentia
lly underlie this chapter. If it reconstructs Finnegan's wake from the \"eyewitl
ess foggus\" of a man \"trapped head,\" it also, as the prelude to \"the book of
Doublends Jined,\" evokes the waking of mankind in its cavemen and its neandert
hal giants: a book of Wakening like) 194) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
Genesis and The New Science, Pinneaans Wake is also \"the book of Doub- lendsJin
ed\" (20.15-16), or \"Dublin's Giant.\" The unconscious mind \"buried in the bod
y\" that HCE possesses in sleep is the unconscious mind out of which Vico's abor
iginal giants initiated the historical wakening of man- kind. It is the mind out
of which, every morning, the world comes to be.) \"FLESCH NUEMAID MOTTS\ Having
reconstructed a psychology of the unconscious, Vico has only begun the work of
his New Science; he still needs to account for the first social choices made by
his world-founding giants. To this end, he summons up the oldest human records a
vailable to him: myths, fables, and legends. Rather than looking at these myths
archetypally, he finds in them irrationally dis- torted accounts of the first hu
man social transactions; for \"men are natu- rally impelled to preserve the memo
ries of the laws and institutions that bind them in their societies\" (NS, 201),
and \"mythologies\" \"will be seen to be civil histories of the first peoples,
who were everywhere naturally poets\" (NS, 352). In order to read these myths wi
th a sensitivity to the alien mentality that generates them, however, Vico devis
es a system of interpretation not unlike dream interpretation, since its object
is to elicit from the manifest appear- ances of obscure texts latent and conceal
ed truths about archaic times- though times in which the earliest members of the
gentile world established the first societies and began the first human social
transactions. \"Poetic Wisdom\" elaborately studies \"scarcely imaginable\" mode
s of thought and expression through which \"unenlightened\" minds transform reco
gnizable human concerns into mythical and fabulous forms. It necessarily seeks i
n turn a means of deciphering these obscure productions, just as psycho- analysi
s would decipher comparably strange forms of thought that played through the min
d in sleep. Since Vico's reconstructive enterprise also required him to study th
e lan- guage in which the concealed histories of the gentile races were preserve
d, a final point of comparison is with the psychoanalytic focus on language itself. Specifically, Vico's reading of myths recalls Freud's repeated observa- ti
ons that the \"analysis of nonsensical verbal forms . . . occur[ring] in dreams
is particularly well calculated to exhibit the dream-work's achieve- ments\"; fo
r Freudian interpretation, like Vico's, works through the \"analysis) Vico's \"N
iaht of Darkness\ 195)))
and synthesis of syllables\" comparably to reconstruct an archaic human past-the
infantile past-whose influence structures \"the text of the dream\" (ID, 338; 3
32n.). Indeed, in some special cases, Freud notes,) . . . the course oflinguisti
c evolution has made things very easy for dreams. For lan- guage has a whole num
ber of words at its command which originally had a concrete and pictorial signif
icance, but are used today in a colorless and abstract sense. All that the dream
need do is to give these words their former, full meaning or to go back a littl
e way to an earlier phase in their development. (ID, 442)) And elsewhere in his
work he broadens the understanding by treating phi- lology as a protoform by psy
choanalysis:) In the agreement between. . . the dream-work. . . and [what] philo
logists have dis- covered to be habitual in the oldest languages, we may see a c
onfirmation of our supposition in regard to the regressive, archaic character of
thought-expression in dreams. And we cannot dismiss the conjecture, which force

s itself on US psychia- trists, that we should understand the language of dreams

better and translate it more easily if we knew more about the development of la
nguage. 20) Vico's study of \"the development of language\" offered Joyce exactl
y this in- sight into \"the language of dreams,\" his psychology of unconsciousn
ess in turn anticipating Freud's both because of its earlier emergence in histor
y and because of its compass: not simply personality, but all of Vico's gentile
humanity begins in an unconsciousness whose dynamic is revealed in the evolution
oflanguage and whose deep structure is yielded by etymology. For the etymology
of \"etymology,\" Vico notes, is \"the science of the true\" (from the Gr. etymo
s, \"true\"; NS, 4\302\2603); and the employment of this \"adamelegy\" in the \"
root language\" of Pinneaans Wake (77.26, 424.17), Joyce said, \"guar- anteed th
e truth of his knowledge and his representation of events\" in his \"imitation o
f the dream-state.\" 21 Since Vico's gentile world unfolds from inside the bodie
s of aboriginal giants, his speculations on the genesis of language proceed from
observa- tions on how language always and only originates in the minds of human
infants, as they begin to express themselves and simultaneously perceive those
others who will teach them a language and consciousness evolved over millennia.
Written language, in this prehistory-sign language-be- gins with manual gestures
, whose exercise gradually educes the hands and eyes from the aboriginally giant
body (NS, 225-26, 401-2, 431-46); while phonetic language originates in compara
bly expressive exercises of the vo- cal chords and ears: in asemantic babbling,
laughing, and crying, all of which Vico subsumes under the single term \"singing
\" (NS, 228-3 1 , 446-54).) 19 6) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
Once Vico's primitive man orients himself in encaved social groups-fami- lies-he
begins to generate pictographic signs and monosyllabic utterances that in memor
y acquire fixed meanings expressive of basic fears and desires (NS, 448-54); and
at this point in his development, man distinguishes him- self from feral giants
and begins to evolve more elaborate social structures, languages, and forms of
knowing. Basic to Vico's genetic account is the understanding that all human lan
guage evolves out of an aboriginal state by a process of distortionary slippage
as \"PREAUSTERIC MAN\" (266.RI) un- consciously blurs syllables and images toget
her, in the course of his devel- opment, in order to build new words and concept
s that always lie just be- yond his slowly growing, conscious grasp: the Latin w
ord for sheep (pecus) generates a word for money (pecunia) as the economic condi
tions of social history evolve, for instance; and the syllable aen-, over time,
generates the concept and practice of \"engineering.\" Complementarily, Vico dis
covers that the etymological unlayering of modern languages, and the consciousne
ss that they make possible, allows the reconstruction of the unconscious mind ou
t of which gentile humanity arose. By drawing on the etymons of Western language
s in Pinneaans Wake, Joyce could accordingly represent a human mind returned, in
sleep, to equivalent unconsciousness. \"'The only difference,' he declared [to
Jacques Mercanton], 'is that, in my imitation of the dream-state, I effect in a
few minutes what it has sometimes taken centuries to bring about.'''22 The prima
ry unconscious meaning that Joyce, through Vico, discovers be- neath all human l
anguage is the \"meaning\" of the human body, within which the whole of gentile
reality comes to be:) The human mind is naturally inclined by the senses to see
itself externally in the body, and only with great difficulty does it come to un
derstand itself by means of reflection. This axiom gives us the universal princi
ple of etymology in all languages: words are carried over from bodies and the pr
operties of bodies to signify the insti tu tions ofthe mind and spirit. (NS, 236
-37)) Just as Pinneaans Wake takes place inside the body of a sleeping giant, so
too the whole of evolved human language and the reality it shapes arises from t
he bodies of man's unconscious human ancestors:) It is noteworthy that in all la
nguages the greater part ofthe expressions relating to inanimate things are form
ed by metaphor from the human body and its parts and from the human senses and p
assions. Thus, head for top or beginning; the eyes of needles and of potatoes; m
outh for any opening; the lip of a cup or pitcher; the teeth) Vieo's \"Night of
Darkness\ 197)))

of a rake, a saw, a comb; the beard of wheat; the tongue of a shoe. . . ; a neck
of land; an arm of the sea; the hands of a clock; heart for center. . . . (NS,
405)) Apart from the decorous restraint that causes Vico to pass over parts of t
he body which twentieth-century man, compensating for centuries of repres- sion,
would later find central to consciousness, this passage too yields its rough ps
ychoanalytical insights and establishes a primary philological principle informi
ng every page of Pinneaans Wake. Buried everywhere be- neath the Wake's letters
lies the form of a sleeping body, HCE. Since all ab- stract language derives fro
m an \"ur sprague\" (507.22 [Da. ursproa, \"original language\"]) in which this
body is merged with everything exterior to it, all human language, in both The N
ew Science and the Wake, etymologically conceals the unconscious \"presence (of
a curpse)\" out of which all gentile reality evolved. At some seminal historical
remove, for instance, the \"pencil\" that our hero wields by day slipped into i
ts name when an unknown user of the Latin language identified a similar instrume
nt with a part of the male body, and, once one thinks about it, revealed an unco
nscious, but nonetheless poetic wisdom; a comparably unconscious confusion of th
e body with the evolved word and tool occurs many times in Pinneaans Wake-e.g.,
173.IO, 26I.IO, 553.11, S63.S-6-though most notably at moments in which our hero
, thinking not out of his \"trapped head\" but out of his body, etches his desir
es in dreams by allowing \"that overgrown leadpencil\" shown in the relief map o
f Dublin (56.12 [The Wellington Memorial, or \"overgrown milestone\"]) to write
of its wishes and wants (see 280.9-16). By day, the hero of Pinneaans Wake likel
y lives at an abstract remove both from his body and the car- nal ground out of
which the gentile world emerges; but at night, the re- pressed \"presence (of a
curpse) \" in his mind asserts itself in the uncovering of the carnal etymon. By
practicing an extended \"abnihilisation of the etym\" throughout the Wake (353.
22 [L. ab nihilo, \"from nothing\"]), Joyce shows the body lying everywhere unde
r the surface of language \302\253 L. lin- aua, \"tongue\"]). Vico's \"universal
principle of etymology in all languages\" both justi- fies and structures the w
hole of Joyce's \"vivIe\" (IIO.17 [L. vivus, \"living\"; \"Bible\"]) : since all
words are inherently puns in which evolved denotations overlay long-lost and so
metimes irretrievable meanings expressive of the un- conscious thinking of the h
uman body, Joyce's \"root language\" is real lan- guage. By weaving through Pinn
eaans Wake the carnal etymons internal to English, Joyce could reconstruct an un
conscious pattern that everywhere) 19 8) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
subliminally informs the Daily World. If the thinking of the body underlies all
gentile reality and thought, and alone wells up into HCE when his ra- tional con
sciousness dissolves in sleep, then the language of Pinneaans Wake had to work w
ith this language beneath language, with carnal ety- mons, to reconstruct in \"f
lesch nuemaid motts,\" one kind of thinking that underlies all thinking (138.8 [
Fr. mots, \"words\"; Fr. nue, naked; Ger. Pleisch, \"flesh\"]).23) \"IRO-EUROPEA
N ASCENDANCES\ Vico's gentile man begins to evolve a social consciousness once t
he sound of patriarchal thunder and \"awethorrorty\" abstracts him from the inte
rior of the giant body; this fall into exteriority in turn forces him to begin m
aking increasingly elaborate distinctions between his own and physical nature, b
etween himself and others. Since removal from the giant body ini tiates the dial
ectically progressive history of civil relations, social history in The New Scie
nce begins when giants related by blood and sharing the same little cave manifes
t differences among one another and establish a social hierarchy by contest of s
heer force. It is a contest whose outcome makes the patriarchal family a determi
nant structure underlying all subsequent societies, the im- print of its forms s
till to be found \"in the modifications of our own mind.\" A second etymological
principle of The New Science therefore holds that the internal social history o
f a people is implicitly preserved in and trans- mitted through its language, an
d that all words carry a subliminal record of an entire past (NS, 238-40, 354):
etymology, in short, is also a form of his- tory, or verbal archaeology, whose s

tudy reveals the growth of \"gentile\" in- stitutions. In an essay in Our Exaami
nation familiar to readers of Joyce, Beckett has already called attention to tha
t passage in The New Science in which Vico, illustrating this etymological princ
iple, looks into the network of relations preserved beneath the modern words for
\"reading\" (It. leaaere) , \"law\" (It. leaae, L. lex), and \"legislation\" (I
t. leaislazione) (NS, 239-40).24 Noting that these terms are internally linked b
oth by \"sound sense\" and by an underlying semantic unity bearing on the idea o
f \"collecting\" and order- ing, Vico discovers beneath them all a lengthy and t
angled social history whose evolved achievements are illustrated in the words li
sted at the top of figure 7.2. The words and concepts of \"legibility\" and \"le
gality,\" according to this etymology, preserve a history of the internal evolut
ionary process by which Latin man gathered himself from forests, where he first
subsisted) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 199)))
logocentrism logogram logarithm (prefixal logo-) t) analogue apologue apology ca
talogue decalogue dialogue eclogue epilogue homologos horologe monologue paralog
ism prologue syllogism etc. (suffixal -logue, -logy) t) anthropology etymology p
hilology psychology etc. (suffixal -logy, -ology)) logic' lexicon dialectic logi
cal lexical dialectics logician lexicography dialectical logistics dialect dysle
xia alexia) legibility legible) legend legendry legendary i leg;oo) lesson) reco
llect collect recollection collection) lecture lectern lector) illegible illegib
ility) prelect prelection (a reading in public)) Fr. lecture (reading)) Fr. lect
eur (reader)) M.E. legende (story of a saint's life) O. Fr. le<;:ont (lesson) I
M.L. legenda (\"things for reading\ M.L. recolligere past participle recollectum
(to gather again)) Gr. eklekto (selected)) O. Fr. cuilJir (to pick out, select)
) Gr. dialektos (discourse) Gr. analekw:t (choice. ) \\ select) Gr. dialegein (t
o talk, reason) \037) L.L. legibilis) L. legio legion is (a choosing; a chosen b
ody)) L. colligere past participle collectum (to gather together) i) Gr. logikos
(belonging to speaking or speech; or to the rational)) Gr. logos' (I. I: the wo
rd by which the inward thought is expressed 2: inward thought itself II. I: word
; language 2: discourse; report; story II I. thought, reason, reckoning) \ Gr. 1
egei n future lexo (I: to gather, pick up; to gather for oneself 2: to reckon.
count; tell. say. speak)) cull) select elite selection eli tism selective elitis
t eligible 1 elegant eligibility elegance Fr. elire (to select); past partici pI
e elite (choice. select)) intell< intell( intell<) elect election el ectora I) L
. intf (unde mm 1) L. seligere past participle selectus (to pick ou t, select) \
\) L. eligere present participle elegans past participle electus (to pick out. s
elect) t) L. i ntell. past par intellect present I intellige (to perCi understa)
L. se- (apart) + legere (to choose)) +) L. e- (out) + legere (to pick out, sele
ct)) L. legere past participle lectum present participle legem (I: to collect. g
ather. pick, piel \037 eYec) *log-o- \037) Figure 7.2. Etymological chart: *leg) 1. \"A gee is just;1 jay on the jaunts cowsway\" (284.F5 [A \"g\" is just a \"
j\" on the giant's causeway]).) 2. Cf. Heidegger, Beina and Time, Int.II.7.B (32
-34).) 3. NS, 239-40.) 4. Benveniste, Indo-European Lanauaae and Society, pp. 51
L. sacrilegus (temple-robber; stealing sacred things) L. religi6 (scrupulous- ne
ss; strict observance)) di ligent lce diligence Ie) religion religious religiosi
ty) It) ilection) negligent negligence neglect) I.L. diligentia :arefulness. tte
ntiveness)) 'ere =) L. neglegere past participle neglectum present participle ne
glegens (to overlook, ignore)) lciple) L. * religere 4 (to re-collect, reconside
r)) articiple) JUt; prize, ghly) \037) part) 1 ) choose)) sacrilege sacrilegious
sortilege i) L. L. sorti 1 egus (fortune- teller)) L. sors, sartis (a lot) + le
gere (to read)) L. sacer (sacred) + legere (to gather up, take away)) loyalty lo
yal loyalist) legislate legislator legislature) privilege privileged) L. allegar
e (to send on L. collegium a mission) (association. L. delegare fraternity) (to
send away) L. relegare t (to send away), L. de- (from) + legare (to send)) legit
imacy legitimate legitimist) college collegiate collegium) legal legality legali

ze legalism) illegitimate illegitimacy) legate legation colleague legacy) M. L.

legatia (bequest)) L. collega (one chosen to serve with an- other; partner in of
fice)) L. lega tia (a delegated authority)) O.Fr. laial, leial (legal; faith- fu
l to obli- gation)) L. privilegium (an exceptional law. favoring an individual)
i) L. privus (single) + lex, legis (law)) L. com- (together) + legare (to choose
)) allege legume alleged leguminous delegate allegation delegation delegacy lign
i te ligneous) relegate) L. legis lacor < legis (of law) latar (proposer. bearer
)) M.L. delegatus) L. ad- (toward) + legare (to send, cha rge)) L. legare past p
articiple legatus (to choose, select; appoint, bequeath)) \037) curopean *leg-'
:k, gather; ut. select)) L. legalis) L. legitimus (lawful)) L. lex, legis (a set
form of words: law; contract: rule)) L. lignum (firewood: \"that which is gathe
red\ *leg- *leg-na- \037\037)))
nomadically by gathering native plants (the Latin leaere [\"to gather\"], from t
he Indo-European root * lea- [\"to gather, or collect\"], generates the words Il
ex [\"oak, gatherer\"] and leauminis, which once meant \"anything that could be
gathered\" and only later came to refer to vegetables); the same pro- cess by wh
ich he later formed protocities whose members were capable of collecting, storin
g, and later cultivating food themselves, and by which he finally established la
rger social groupings, whose formation made necessary the first formal laws. Gat
herings of people into public bodies like these, then, historically generated th
e necessary institutions of \"legality\" and \"legislatures\" (after the Latin l
ex, leais), as well as the etymologically re- lated property of \"legibility\";
for the gathering complexity of civil law re- quired its fixation in codes. That
historical linguistics and anthropology have inevitably modified the \"facts\"
and refined our sense of the evolution of these terms does not finally matter: T
he New Science explores the genetic processes immanent in these words and the co
vert network of relationships tha t they reveal. Particularly because The New Sc
ience explores the evolution of \"reason\" as a human institution, a dramatic wa
y of illustrating what is at stake for Vico in the practice of etymology would b
e to consider the process by which the gentile world undertook the \"fibfib fabr
ication\" (36.34) of the term \"rea- son\" itself. As figure 7.3 will suggest, t
he growth of this word out of the Indo- European radical *ar- is implicated in a
n objectifying tendency that also solidifies the meaning of \"reality,\" which i
s a concept and a word and a \"fact\" of the world only in the radical sense of
\"fact\" \302\253 L. factum, \"a thing made,\" as if \"manufactured\.") The etym
ology also suggests that the ascent of man into a \"rationality\" that maintains
this sense of the \"real\" also en- tails enmeshment in a network of correlated
formal institutions-\"read- ing,\" \"art,\" and \"orderliness\" among them-whos
e internalized effect is co- incidentally parallel to that exerted by legal\" or
dinances\" and the\" army.\" For\" art,\" .. reading,\" and\" reasona bili ty,\"
by pu tting and keeping the world in \"order\" and maintaining a sense of the \
"ordinary,\" do much what\" armies\" do-as analysts of ideology have long known.
The network of relationships implicit in the etymology of the \"real\" reinforc
es those implicit in the his- tory of \"legibility,\" then, to suggest how the e
volution of Vico's gentile \"re- ality\" is implicated in the slow formation of
institutions and laws whose learning contractually holds together the Daily Worl
d. The New Science is predicated on etymological studies like these, which recon
struct the forgotten and underlying senses of words that determine modern consci
ousness and institutions-words like \"society,\" \"liberty,\" and) 202) JOYCE'S
\"hostility,\" for example, and \"nation\" and \"gentility.\" Formative among th
ese is the word and concept of \"family,\" which Vico finds stamped into the min
ds of all people in his gentile history. When Vico's giants first group to- geth
er in caves, they have no need of a distinct word or concept like \"fam- ily,\"
since signs designating individual members of the group would ring out all neces
sary social distinctions (NS, 257, 552). In order to understand the genesis of \

"families,\" then, Vico traces the word back toward the Latin fa- muIus, \"serva
nt,\" and reconstructs a moment in prehistory when men still in the wild and at
the mercy of stronger anthropoids seek out the patriarchal groups already establ
ished in caves for protection: they are admitted as \"slaves,\" famuli, and thei
r ownership in time generates the word familia, which in Latin originally means
\"a household of servants,\" and not a group of people related by blood. In turn
, Vico speculatively derives the word famulus from the Greek and Latin words for
\"fame\" or \"rumored glory\" (pheme and farna), since the gathering rumor of a
gloriously protective group brings these uncivilized wanderers into the patriar
chal fold (NS, 555). Their entrance into the germinating society sets up the nee
d for words and concepts that distinguish the patriarch's sons-still regarded as
his negoti- able property-from his slaves, and also from those untamed giants w
ho still wander alone outside of gentile nature. The widening of social distinctions and tensions therefore generates the words liberi (\"sons\" or \"chil- dr
en\,") famuli, and hostes (\"strangers, enemies\.") In time, as the patriarch am
asses enough slaves to work for him, he liberates his sons from servitude to con
fer on them a vague freedom withheld from the famuli. The condition of his sons
accordingly begins to generate the concept, new to social history, of \"liberty\
"; they \"were called liberi, free. But it was [originally] a distinc- tion with
out a difference\" (NS, 556).25 With the passage of generations and the accumula
tion of more wealth, the concept of freedom in turn generates a concept and word
for \"nobility\" (liberalitas) , and the word familia comes to mean a blood-rel
ated group of people wealthy enough to be free because they have large holdings
of property and famuli to work for them. By this point in gentile history, man h
as stumbled up out of the obscurity of the world's beginning, and the conditions
under which isolated patriarchal families would generate tribal feudalisms and
a slavery sanctioned by tradi- tion have become solidly established as forces in
ternally driving a history made by man, but now way beyond his immediate control
(NS, 552-69, 5 8 3- 8 4) . All of these Vichian verbal archaeologies are import
ant to Pinneaans Wake, which, after the example of Vico, discovers beneath all w
ords a layer) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 20 3)))
real) read) rate) rational) re aso n) o) reality' realist realism realistic) rea
lty' realtor real estate t reification I \"ify realtor (coined by eN. Chadbourn
of Minneapolis?) I) republic rebus) reading reader reada bili ty riddles) ritual
rite) rates ratings) ration) rationality rationalism rationale rationalize rati
onalistic) reasoning reasona ble reasonability ratiocinate ratiocination) ratify
ratification) rede) ari thmetic) ratio) arraignme arraign) 1) hundred) M.E. red
eJ) t) 16th c. Eng. real (not imag- inary)) M.E. reden (to explain; to read)) a.
N. hundrath ( lOoth count)) M. E. raison) M.E. arayn) t) a.E. r;ed ( advice. cou
nsel)) a.Fr. rate) t) t) L. res publica (things public; common wealth)) t) a.Fr.
araini (to bring be a court of I,) L. natura rerum (\"the nature of things\"; G
erm. *redan the world) (advise)) i) i) a.Fr. raison) a.E. r;eden) L. riwalis (ri
tual)) LL. rata pars (reckoned part)) Med. L. rati!icare (to fix by calculation;
to validate)) fa) a.E. r;eden (to advise, counsel, in- terpret)) Germ. *rath (n
umber)) L. ratiocinari (to calculate; to reason)) 1) Gr. arithmos (number)) L. r
atio, rationis (a reckoning, calcu- lation; transaction. business affair; motive
, reason)) L. res (thing, object; possessions, property; reality, truth)) L. rit
us \\ (rite) \037) ridh\",\ *r;J-) L. raws (past participle of rear) (reckoned,
calculated; settled, determined; valid, binding, legal) ,.) L. rear, reri, ra tu
s (to reckon. calculate; think. suppose)) * (a) ri, *rei-') *re-) proto-Indo-l *
ar- (to fit, join. fit together)) Figure 7.3. Etymological chart: *ar-. \"those
ars, rrrr! those ars all bellical, the high priest's hieroglyph . . . wrasted re
dhandedly from our hallowed rubric prayer for truce with booty. . . and rudely f
rom the fane's pinnacle tossed down. . . among Those Who arse without the Temple
\" (122.6-12 [\"ars\": L. ars, \"art\"; \"ars all bellical\": L. ars be11ica, \"
the art of war\"; \"truce with booty\": \"truth and beauty\"; \"fane\"; L. fanus
, \"temple,\" opposite of pro-fanus, \"outside the Temple\"])) 1. Cf. Raymond Wi
lliams, Keywords; A Vocabulary of Culture and Society, pp. 216-20.) 2. Pokorny,

Indo-Germanisches Etymoloaisches Worterbuch, p. 60.)))

art) less) ordinance (law) ordnance (arms)) primordial primordium) articulate ar
ticulation) aristocrat aristocracy aristocratic) harmony harmonic harmonize) art
ist artistic artistry artificer) :>rdinary) subordinate subordination coordinate
coordination) ornament ornamental ornamentation ornate) aristology (art of dini
ng)) Aristotle Aristophanes Aristocles ete.) artiste) articles) arty exordium ar
tifact artifice artisan) ordonnance (aesthetics)) adorn adornment) artificial ar
tful) ordain preordain ordination ordinal) Eng. ordnance (supplies)) arthritis (
prefixal arthro- )) a.Fr.. M.E. ordenance (an order. command)) a. Fr. article (d
ivision. part)) L. primordium (origin) t) a.E.) earm (arm)) Med. L. subordinare
(to set in a lower order)) O.Fr. ordonnance (arrangement [of parts in the whole]
)) Gr. Aristorle (\"by far the best\"?) < arisros + rele (far)) Gr. harmonikos (
skilled in music)) L. primus (first) + ordiri (begin)) L. iners, inertia (inacti
ve. lazy) !: L. articulus (small joint, part. division) L. in- + i ars, artis (u
nskilled)) Gr. arisron (breakfast)) Gr. harmonia (a fitting to- gether; agree- m
ent; harmony) f Germ. (arm)) Gr. aristokraria (rule by the best-born)) ,.) 1-) L
. ordiri (to begin a web; to begin)) Gr. arere (virtue)) Gr. arachne (spider) \0
37) L. artus L. ars, artis (the joints) (skill. style. t Gr. arrhron technique;
art) (joint) \037 *ar(:J)-tu t \"'v) *ar(:J) -smo) Gr. harmos (a joining, joint)
t) *(a) -r:J-(k)-) L. ordo, ordinis (a line. row. order; order. arrangement; <
a row of threads in a loom)) \\) *ar(:J)-dhro-) t) *ar-r-) *or-dh-) J) *- or-) *
arg-) /) \037) arms) army armed) disarm disarming) armaments armada armistice ar
mipotent armoire armor armorial armory ete.) alarm alarming alarm clock alarmist
) a.Fr. desarmer) a.Fr. alarme) t) L. arma (arms. weapons)) L. armus (upper arm;
\"muscles\ *ar(:J)-mo) /)))
of subliminal meanings stratified in sociohistorical time, the most current of w
hich, making possible an aspect of modern social consciousness, con- ceals archa
ic self-interests and fears that arose\" at the very dawn of proto- history,\" \
"when Chimpden first took the floor\" (169.21,46.2 [and the ascent of man began]
). Again, this conception of history anticipates the psycho- analytical view of
society as the collective creation of individuals whose actions are determined b
y parents, intrafamilial conflicts, and phobias in- herited from the past. But t
he Vichian vision according to which Pinneaans Wake makes the embattled human fa
mily a paradigmatic force in the genesis of social reality is historical, and it
sees all of these struggles as institu- tionallegacies \302\253 I. E. * lea-) i
rrationally passed on from generation to gen- eration; so that even today every
father inevitably maintains a power in- vested in him by tradition, while every
son born into a world shaped by this already-established authority has inevitabl
y to overcome it, then to com- pete with peers that he might inherit the patrimo
ny of an authority now historically transformed. Whenjoyce makes the family the
center of all his- torical conflict in Pinneaans Wake, then, he is isolating the
primal social struggle in Vico that both historically and always engenders othe
r struggle. Since]oyce sought in Pinneaans Wake a language that would reconstruc
t the \"infrarational\" thought to which his hero-\"a respectable prominently co
n- nected fellow of lro-European ascendances with welldressed ideas\" (37.25- 26
) -regresses in his nightlife, he draws on Vico's sociolinguistic vision by maki
ng central to the book not simply those carnal etymons that reveal the sleeping
giant out of which gentile \"reality\" unfolds, but words and institu- tions tha
t subliminally show how deeply riddled with unconscious conflict that giant form
is.) HERE COMES EVERYBODY) According to a third etymological principle of The N
ew Science informing the Wake, the etymology of a language can reveal not only t
he internal so- cial formation of a people, but also the international forces th
at trans- formed that people through trade, war, migration, colonization, and \"
mis- cegenations on miscegenations\" (18.20): \"These. . . axioms give us the pr
inciple of a new etymologicon for words of certainly foreign origin, dif- ferent
from that mentioned above for native words. It can also give us the history of

nations carried one after another into foreign lands by coloniza- tion\" (NS, 29
9-300, 303-4).) 206) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
A writer like Joyce, born into a nation that had been subjected to wave after wa
ve of colonial and imperialistic invasion, could not fail to find these insights
compelling. Once Vico's social history widens out of its claustral patriarchal
groupings into a stage at which feudal tribes war, trade, or ally themselves wit
h other feudal tribes, all history becomes an intertribal, and later an internat
ional collision of social forces; and whenever nations of two cultures collide,
languages and consciousnesses collide and evolve also. In The New Science, then,
Vico treats modern languages as if they were the lan- guage of Pinneaans Wake-a
s blurred, polyglottal compacts of dozens of strange and foreign languages. In t
his kind of analysis, English would not be an exceptional case. The earliest kno
wn inhabitants of England were eventually displaced by people who spoke a Celtic
tongue descended from the proto-Indo-European hypothetically spoken somewhere,
most likely, in Eastern Europe-a Celtic related to the Welsh, Scottish, Breton,
and Irish still in existence today. But the Roman invasions overlaid this Britis
h Celtic with some Latin and a new civic consciousness, and marauding Angles and
Saxons, pressured from be- hind by invading tribes from the East, moved in to o
verride almost entirely the original British Celtic with an extensive Old Teuton
ic base. Invading Danes and Norsemen added a different complexion yet to the Ang
lish and Saxon already spreading outwards toward the frontiers of the island. Mi
s- sionaries of the medieval Church made universal Latin the language of the lit
erate and educated, and the Norman invasion brought, with its laws, the whole co
nsciousness of the Mediterranean and Romance languages into En- gland and then i
nto Ireland-where the hybrid Anglo- Irish known by day to the hero of Pinneaans
Wake acquired a polyglottal texture already densely riddled with historical tens
ions. Like The New Science, Pinneaans Wake also tries to fathom \"the obscure so
ul of the world\" (U, 27), the force of a fumblingly made history in which gener
ation after generation of billions of ephemeral individuals born in un- consciou
sness engendered, by their groping efforts, the conscious present in which one l
ives. A book about rapidly vanishing dreams and \"darkness shining in brightness
which brightness could not comprehend\" (U, 27), Pin- neaans Wake explores, aft
er the example of Vico, all the dark, uncon- sciousnesses that underlie its hero
's thinking and enable it to be what it is; in every sentence it brings to mind
those forgotten \"furbears\" who spoke alien tongues in the obscure prehistory o
f the gentile world, so to make possible all the small articles of the conscious
ness and reality within which Joyce's hero by day individually lives:) Vico's \"
Niaht of Darkness\ 2\302\2607)))
You mean to see we have been hadding a sound night's sleep? You may so. It is ju
st, it is just about to, it is just about to rolywholyover. Svapnasvap. Of all t
he stranger things that ever not even in the hundrund and badst pageans of untho
wsent and wonst nice or in eddas and oddes bokes of tomb, dyke and hollow to be
have hap- pened! The untireties of livesliving being the one substrance of a str
eamsbecom- ing. Totalled in toldteld and teldtold in tittletell tattle. Why? . .
. Why? Such me. (597. I -22)) Having laboriously earned, by this late point in
Pinneaans Wake, the right to compare the length of life to the length of a volat
ile dream about to be scattered into nothing, Joyce evokes beneath the \"basic E
nglish\" of this passage the Mid-Eastern Book of One Thousand and One Niahts (\"
unthow- sent and wonst nice\,") the Sanskrit svapna (\"asleep\") and svap (\"sle
ep\ in \"Svapnasvap,\" and other such formative \"odds and ends\" (\"eddas and o
ddes\") of Western history as those \"toldteld and teldtold\" in the Icelandic E
ddas written at Oddi (\"in eddas and oddes\,") in John I: I (\"In the be- ginnin
g was the word\,") and in the Egyptian Book of the Dead and com- parable \"bokes
of tomb, dyke and hollow\"-all in order to represent the panhistorical human \"
substrance of a streamsbecoming\" that has become embodied in a simple sleeping
man, not even aware of himself, who is about to roll over, and waken from uncons

ciousness into English and the reality it upholds. Like anyone's, this man's min
d and \"the entirety of [his] livesliving\" has been made possible both by billi
ons of Toms, Dicks, and Harrys (\"tomb, dyke and hollow\") bled up out of gentil
e humanity over centuries in India, Egypt, Arabia, Norway, England, and Ireland,
and by the steadily evolving language, \"totalled in toldteld and teldtold in t
ittletell tattle\" whose \"Total\" is English and the wakeful consciousness it m
akes possible. As he lies unconscious in the unwilled \"trance\" of sleep (\"sub
-strance\,") all of the forces that have genetically shaped his consciousness co
me to represent him: he lies as unconscious of them as he is of himself, his \"s
ubstance\" \"substrance[d]\" by their \"streamsbecoming.\" In visions of history
as com- plex as those entertained by The New Science and Pinneaans Wake, then,
\"English\"-a comparatively modern development of world history-ac- quires meani
ng only as a convenient blanket term designating a language and sensibility hist
orically compounded of scores of others. In Vico's third etymological axiom, Joy
ce found richly reaffirmed the cer- tain knowledge that language and consciousne
ss are manifestations of each other, living and evolving forces made by men, but
beyond any individual's control, which grow and expand and become more internat
ional as \"our) 208) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
social something bowls along bumpily, experiencing a jolting series of pre- arra
nged disappointments, down the long lane of (it's as semper as oxhouse- humper!)
generations, more generations and still more generations\" (107.32- 35) : \"sem
per,\" here, combines \"simple\" with the Latin semper (\" always\, while \"oxho
usehumper\" translates into English the first three letters of the Hebrew alphab
et-aleph (meaning \"ox\,") beth (\"house\,") ahimel (\"camel\") -in order to con
vey, in the image of a problematically propelled bowling ball, the commutual evo
lution of language, consciousness, and so- cial forms in Vico's gentile history.
Joyce found much in Vico that was congenial. That half of The New Sci- ence con
tained in \"Poetic Wisdom\" gave him a psychology of the uncon- scious, an accou
nt of dream formation, and a system of dream interpreta- tion which, because the
y were synthetically integrated into a social history and a linguistic vision, a
ppealed to Joyce more than the new sciences of psychoanalysis or linguistics. Un
like other philosophies of history and unlike any of the new sciences of sociolo
gy, anthropology, or political sci- ence, Vico's New Science did not regard lang
uage as an instrument subser- vient to a subject more central, but saw it instea
d as a condition that made possible both civil history and human consciousness.
Long before Darwin developed the new science of animal evolution and Freud refin
ed his ac- count of infantile genesis, Vico saw human history as the creation of
people born into the world in an unconsciousness that only after the struggles
of millennia would evolve and codify into letters the arbitrary accomplish- ment
of reason. Joyce undoubtedly admired above all in Vico, as he did in Aristotle
and Aquinas, that synthetic catholicity and systematic wholeness of thought whic
h was able to integrate in The New Science a philosophy, an evolutionary science
, a developmental psychology, a sociology and anthro- pology, a dialectical hist
ory, and a verbal archaeology. Written in the cen- tury that saw the genesis of
scientific rationalism, The New Science antici- pates in total the whole array o
f human sciences which would precipitate out of the positivist tradition at the
turn of the nineteenth century. Since it does not make the individual, but manki
nd the center of a ter- restrial cosmos, The New Science afforded Joyce the exam
ple of a work both traditional and radical, humanistic and anthropocentric, on w
hich he might model Pinneaans Wake. Vico's etymological reconstructions of the u
nconscious forces at the base of history moreover gave to Joyce the working prin
ciples by which Pinneaans Wake would represent the unconscious con- flicts under
lying his hero's wakeful thought, and all his daytime social) Vico's \"Niaht of
Darkness\ 20 9)))
transactions. In Vico's etymological vision, Joyce found that every normal parti
cle of language was inherently a quadruple pun of sorts. Beneath its current den

otation, every word concealed two meanings revelatory of its existence in histor
y, one reflecting the internal evolution of social forms and the other reflectin
g the wider international forces whose play modified those forms. And because ev
ery particle of language was a creation of gen- tile man, whose world and realit
y arose from the interior of flesh, all words finally concealed the aliterate th
inking of the body, within which Joyce's subject lies unconscious in the regress
ion of his sleep. The pun, according to Vico's etymology, was not simply an opti
on of Joyce's style: its form was in- herent in language and in the tensions giv
ing rise to the consciousness that language makes possible. Very much a book of
origins-like Joyce's own Book of Waking- The New Science would also have provide
d Joyce with an account of human gene- sis more complex than that contained in t
he orthodox Biblical Genesis, quietistically received as truth over generations;
than the rationalist ac- count of genesis, according to which human reason aros
e through mecha- nistic laws of nature; than the psychoanalytical account of gen
esis, which scrutinized personal, but not social origins; and than socialist acc
ounts of genesis, which examined broad social tensions, but not the individuals
in whom they were embodied. Since sleep, from a Vichian perspective, can be cons
trued as the process through which a person awakens from uncon- sciousness at th
e interior of a space-pervading body, Pinneaans Wake assimi- lates whole the gen
etic vision of The New Science in order to represent the drift of its \"dead gia
nt manalive\" (500.1-2) out of nothingness toward wakening and \"the opening of
the mind to light\" (258.31-32). Telling in its own way a \"meandertale, aloss a
nd again, of our old Heidenburgh in the days when Head-in-Clouds walked the eart
h\" (18.22-24)-the references to \"Neanderthal\" and \"Heidelberg man\" returnin
g us to \"primeval conditions\" (S99.9-1O)-it reconstructs \"the ignorance [or u
nconsciousness] that im- plies impression that knits [our] knowledge that finds
the nameform that whets the wits that convey contacts that sweeten sensation tha
t drives de- sire that adheres to attachment that dogs death that bitches birth
that en- tails the ensuance of existentiality\" (18.24-29 [the \"ignorance\" out
of which, every morning, the whole of gentile existence comes to be]). Elsewher
e the Wake pays tribute to Vico by casting him in the image of the maker of firs
t things, the knower of the world's dream, and the tutelary divinity of HCE's ni
ghtlife:) 210) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
For the producer (Mr John Baptister Vickar) caused a deep abuliousness to de- sc
end upon the Father of Truants and, at a side issue, pluterpromptly brought on t
he scene the cutletsized consort. . . . (255.27-30)) Set in the unconsciousness
of Joyce's sleeping Dubliner (\"abulia,\" < Gr. aboule, \"wi thou twill,\" is a
psychological term for the loss of volition) , this is a modern reconstruction o
f Adam's dream, the dream in which the first man imagined his ideal consort, Eve
-whom \"the producer\" removes here, \"cutletsized,\" from Adam's rib. As the st
ory from the Book of Genesis about the birth of human imagination that haunted M
ilton and his Romantic suc- cessors, the moment of Adam's dream begins the gener
ation of secular his- tory in the Bible. As it is evoked in the Wake, Vico becom
es its generator and its interpreter, its \"baptist\" and its \"vicar,\" because
Vico, for Joyce, was the first man in modern history to fathom the first man an
d the first man's first dream. Joyce finally found in The New Science an intrica
te sense of human evolu- tion that refused to reduce history to a process in whi
ch discrete individuals in discrete generations act separately at moments discre
tely isolated in time. In Vico, the whole of gentile history determines the cons
ciousness, lan- guage, society, and material circumstances in which anyone finds
himself in the present; so that no one, consequently, would have the life and m
ind that he does were it not for an infinitude of people in the past: Vico's fir
st men, whose bodies determined the structure of all subsequent reality and whos
e first hardly imaginable outcries made all subsequent language pos- sible; the
nomadic men of patriarchal Israel who made possible the coming of Christ and the
millennia during which the image of the Crucifixion and the Resurrection shaped
the perceptions of the whole Western world; the Greek thinkers who made possibl
e the ongoing enterprises of philosophy, natural science, and mathematics; and b

illions of men more. A book that treats with studious intensity \"all matters th
at fall under the ban of our infrarational senses,\" Pinneaans Wake absorbs Vico
's vision of history to make its reader conscious on every page of the universe
of people who have generated the possibility of his individual existence (see, e
.g., 582.13-21, 599.4- 18), Absent from his own consciousness, Joyce's sleeping
hero in turn becomes an embodiment of all the historical forces that have produc
ed both him and the conflicted desires which structure his dreams. In his identi
ty-void drift through sleep, he becomes indirectly represented in the images of
so many) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 211)))
other people-his sons, his racial and historical forebears, individuals prominen
t in the historical age in which he lives-that his mind eventually becomes a spa
ce made possible and cohabited by a world of people, each insubstantial as himse
lf, who constitute a kind of psychic community in which each historically depend
s on each other but all ultimately enter into the formation of the dreamer's sin
gle dream:) . . . an you could peep inside the cerebralised saucepan of this eer
illwinded goodfor- nobody, you would see in his house of thoughtsam (was you, t
hat is, decontami- nated enough to look discarnate) what a jetsam litterage of c
onvolvuli of times lost or strayed, of lands derelict and of tongues laggin too.
. . bashed and beaushelled .. .pharaheadintofaturity.... (292.12-19)) Another p
un basic to Pinneaans Wake, then, condenses the individual and the collective, t
he self-enclosed dreamer unwillingly paralyzed in his body in present time and,
as in Vico, the multitude of men in the collective his- tory which parented him,
which includes him, and within whose evolved tensions, in sleep as in wakefulne
ss, he finds himself and his desire netted. This kind of pun operates most simpl
y in Pinneaans Wake merely in the pro- liferation of names that reveal the uncon
scious presence of its sleeping pro- tagonist. \"Here Comes Everybody\" (32.18)
and \"Haveth Childers Every- where\" (535.34-35), names that evoke HCE in social
and paternal forms, are not simply ciphers for the \"one stable somebody\" who
sleeps at the Wake, but paradigms of the mankind whose struggles and labors have
made possible that private, self-enclosed somebody. So, too, this catalogue of
heroes and warriors who helped to shape the history that made possible the comin
g of the man asleep at Pinneaans Wake, a man whose life has risen out of the pas
t in which they perished: \"Helmingham Erchenwyne Rutter Egbert Crumwall Odin Ma
ximus Esme Saxon Esa Vercingetorix Ethelwulf Rupprecht Y dwalla Bentley Osmund D
ysart Y ggdrasselmann? Holy Saint Eiffel, the very phoenix!\" (88.21-24 [read ac
rostic ally, the first letters of these names make a statement]) . By structurin
g the mind of his sleeping hero in the indirect images of all these others, Joyc
e demonstrates how fundamentally, if unconsciously, indi- viduals are deeply ent
angled members of one another. He was not simply suggesting that his hero's thin
king is composed of the people who have touched him most directly-of his parents
, whose circumstances determined the nation and race, the language, sexuality, s
ocial class, fears, religion, and conscience that shaped him as a child; of his
teachers, who informed) 212) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))
him with the evolved learning and ideology of all gentile history; and of his ne
ighbors, whose patronage and scorn helped to determine the character of his soci
al existence. He was suggesting also that even the remotest human contact in his
modern man's life, simply by virtue of its contact, inevitably finds a reflexiv
e place in his humanity, to become a part of his conscious- ness and his persona
l identity. Just as human nature, in Vico's gentile his- tory, is made wholly by
people, so HCE's whole nature is unconsciously de- fined and structured by othe
rs both within and far beyond his immediate circle of acquaintance. It was from
Vico that Joyce learned, even while writing those two egotistical biographical n
ovels, Stephen Hero and A Por- trait, that no infant born into the world of gent
ile nature can even remotely attain a \"personality\" without the prior existenc
e of scores of people in the world immediately around it, and of billions of oth
ers buried in the night of a historical past ordinarily lost to consciousness: a

ll of human thinking, in- crementally modified by the desiring individual who li

ves at its experienced center, comes from someone else. In reconstructing the \"
indentity\" of a man whose conscious identity has dissolved in sleep, Pinneaans
Wake struc- turally treats its central figure as the raddled blur of millions of
persons, most of whom are completely absent from the consciousness that they un
- consciously helped to shape. \"As a singleminded supercrowd\" (42.22), our her
o is \"more mob than man\" (261.21-22). These persons, therefore, need not even
be close to the dreamer in space or time. In Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus claims tha
t his consciousness has been fathered not at all by Simon Dedalus, but by Aristo
tle, Aquinas, Shake- speare, Swift, and the Fathers of the Church; this consciou
sness is fa- thered further, and more humanely, by his evanescent crossing with
Leopold Bloom, a stranger who teaches him simple solicitude and interest for a f
ew hours. Pinneaans Wake, working from Vico's science of history, merely ex- ten
ds Stephen's insights into the genesis of identity to their logical and just end
s when, in its own strange form, it treats HCE's personality as an or- ganically
unified tissue of other persons, most of whom, buried in a past of which he is
unconscious, play absolutely no part in his wakened life at all. According to th
e standards by which we ordinarily assess that genre of writ- ing known oxymoron
ically as \"realistic fiction,\" even the most unreflecting hack would think fou
r times before setting the hero of a novel into a plot that depended, for instan
ce, on an ancient cult of Greek mystics, influen- tially descended from a sediti
ous Semitic carpenter, who managed to trans- form the identity of a Roman empero
r of the Western world and subse-) Vico's \"Niaht of Darkness\ 21 3)))
quently the identities of the descendants of the barbaric hordes his heirs would
conquer. Not Joyce. If realistic fiction by convention scorned the fan- tastic,
the \"imitation of the dream-state\" that he achieved in Pinneaans Wake found h
istorical reality more fantastic than both the fantasies realistic novelists sco
rned and the contrived reality they sought to represent. HCE's personality, then
, is defined not only by family and contemporaries, but by people as remote in h
istory as Christ and Constantine and Attila. These people are members of his per
sonality: they arise in his \"nightlife\" not simply in composite structures tha
t obliquely capture his identity, but as parts of him, by virtue of having made
parts of his consciousness possible. Thousands of people from the past and from
all nations crowd into HCE's dream to constitute the mind beneath his mind. In t
he individually dream- ing body they establish a thickly entwined human communit
y whose evo- lution in history has vitally formed the ground of his wakeful life
. His ego or \"I . . . be the massproduct of teamwork\" (546.14- 15). Like The N
ew Science, Pinneaans Wake generates a vision of human con- sciousness in which
individual personality can be spoken of only as the summed collection of all per
sons who have collided with it, made its exis- tence in history possible, and ev
en vaguely helped to shape it; paradoxi- cally set entirely within an individual
body, the book devastates as com- pletely as the condition of sleep the whole n
otion of discrete individuality. It finally conceives of individuality not as a
solipsistic cage, but as a society of sorts, in which family, contemporaries, hi
storical and racial forebears, and the shadows of long-forgotten people interact
to evolve a conscious or- ganism, as in Vico, that has dreams and nightmares in
a present time which always moves forward under the evolutionary forces of achi
eved or frus- trated desire and wish. Although the deformations of English integ
ral to the work have caused some readers to regard it as the product of a furiou
s egocentrism, nothing could be further from the truth. No defense ofjoyce's aes
thetic methods will make a first reading of Pinneaans Wake less tortuous and fru
strating than it may perhaps be: it is humiliating for some to be reminded that
one does not know everything in the world, or even in the fractional part of the
world that Joyce managed to assimilate. But even a tortuous first reading of th
e Wake should suggest that few books are less egocentric: dead to the world, its
\"belowes hero\" has no consciousness of himself as an \"ego\" or an \"iden- ti
ty\" at all. As social in its vision of individual personality as The New Sci- e
nce, Pinneaans Wake does not elevate HCE even to the individual level of an insi

gnificant Leopold Bloom, but represents his mind in the displaced) 214) JOYCE'S
guises of all those others who have made that mind what it is. Almost pro- miscu
ous and indiscriminating in its fascination with humanity, it does not seek to t
ell the egotistically private success story of an individual burdened with great
expectations. Less egocentric than somatocentric, it depicts a hero void of ide
ntity and weirdly named \"Here Comes Everybody,\" who lies \"refleshed\" in the
universally experienced condition of sleep, thinking in the form of poetic wisdo
m that flows out of the body and underlies the texts of dreams, whose mind is an
introjected image of the universe and of the universe of people who made him. T
he \"ideal universal history\" that Vico discovered beneath the consciousness of
everyone born in the enlightened present, Joyce made a living, dynamic world in
Pinneaans Wake. Its prose is the prose of the world.) Vico's \"Niaht of Darknes
s\ 21 5)))
CHAPTER) EIGHT) \"Meoptics\ SOME \"VIDUAL\" AIDS) Although the complaint that \"
Joyce's vision has atrophied\" in Pinneaans Wake most often comes from readers h
ostile to the book, even its admirers have noted in perplexity that \"the strang
est feature of this dream is that it lacks visual imagery. . . it is no easier t
o visualize a Mookse or a Gripes than to gather a clear-cut impression of slithy
tove or a mome rath.\" I Diffi- culties like these now merit our attention beca
use the evident visual opac- ity of the Wake is only a special case of what has
been more broadly per- ceived as its general referential opacity: since so much
of the Wake is hard to visualize, it is difficult to see it referring to anythin
g at all. Here as always, however, the continued practice of \"ideal insomnia\"
and steady reference to the night will illuminate a great deal, and largely by r
eminding us that most of the night does not involve vision or visual dreaming of
any sort at all. One can hardly notice the transformation as it overtakes one n
ightly in bed, but as one lies there colorfully envisioning other people and pla
ces while drifting out of wakefulness into sleep, one suddenly becomes func- tio
nally blind. 2 The greater part of sleep engages you in \"blind poring,\" \"with
. . . dislocated reason,\" \"in your own absence\" (189.30-31), so that anyone a
sking himself what he saw while asleep last night will likely assent to what he
might read virtually anywhere in Pinneaans Wake:) -You saw it visibly from your
hidingplace? -No. From my invisibly lyingplace.) (5\302\2604.8-9)) 216)))
The Wake, in turn, not simply resists visualization, but actively encourages its
reader not to visualize much in its pages, where \"it darkles . . . all this ou
r funnaminal world\" (244.13). Because HCE passes through the night \"with his e
yes shut\" (130.19), he regards the world from the interior of \"blackeye lenses
\" (183.17) sunk in \"eyes darkled\" (434.31) and kept firmly \"SHUT\" behind \"
a blind of black\" (182.32-33); through the \"eyewitless fog- gus\" ofthis \"ben
igh ted irismaimed\" (489.3 I [his eyes \"benighted,\" each \"iris maimed\"]), w
e regard a universe of profound \"unsightliness\" (131. 19). \"It's a pity he ca
n't see\" (464.5), because it makes all the many \"unseen\" \"thinks\" that happ
en in Pinneaans Wake difficult for the reader who craves spectacle to apprehend
(158.36, 194.18, 403.22). Consciousness is so firmly affixed to the human eye th
at one would find it difficult to write an extended sentence in English without
agitating some aspect of vision (as in this sentence, for instance, the terms\"
affix,\" \"length,\" and \"extended\" evoke spatial relations; \"write,\" if not
\"sentence,\" evokes graphics; and \"aspect\" furls out of the Latin specere [\
"to look at\"], in kin- ship with terms like spectrum, spectacle, introspect, an
d perspective). All such concrete nouns as \"eye,\" certainly, \"appeal [appear]
to [the] grope- sarching eyes\" (167.12- 13); but so too, implicitly, do many a
bstractions: \"insight,\" for instance, \"ideas,\" \302\253 Gr. eido, \"to see\,
") and \"theory\" \302\253 Gr. theoreo, \"to look at, view\.") In the Wake, by c

ontrast-where everything is \"forswundled\" (598.3 [Ger. verschwindet, \"vanishe

d,\" or vorschwindelt, \"made-believe\" )-the language struggles hard to \"appea
l [appear]\" neither to the eye nor to those parts of consciousness rooted in th
e eye because it probes a state of existence in which everything is unconscious,
and there- fore not immediately \"wiseable\" (16.24 [or \"visible\"]). Antithet
ical in every way to the world accessibly open to \"the light of the bright reas
on which daysends to us from the high\" (610.28-29 [\"descends,\" \"day sends\"]
), the Evening World is situated at the heart of an immense men- tal and cosmolo
gical \"Blackout\" (560.2,617.14; d. 221.22,403.17 [\"Black! Switch out!\"]) -an
d not least because sleep and night undo the creative fiat (L. \"Piat lux,\" \"L
et there be light!\") by pitching the visible into a form of doubly complected d
arkness. As gravity pulls the planet through the pen- umbra and umbra of its own
shadow and \"the owl globe wheels into view\" (6.29-30), visible earth spills o
ff the face of the earth, and \"the darkness which is the afterthought of [the L
ord's] nomatter\" alone becomes manifest (258.32-33). Within the darkness of thi
s \"earth in umber\" (588.20 [L. um- bra, \"shadow\"]), millions of \"humble ind
ivisibles in this grand continuum\" fall down dead to the world in synchrony wit
h the Wake's \"benighted iris-) \"Meoptics\ 21 7)))
maimed\" (472.30), where, blinded by sleep and given \"glass eyes for an eye\" (
183.36), they see only \"invasable blackth\" (594.33 [as opposed to \"visible bl
ack\"J). A recurrent term in Pinneaans Wake-\" Fiatfuit!\" (17.32)-simply means
in Latin that '''Let there be!' was,\" or as Joyce puts it elsewhere in English,
\"leaden be light\" (313.3S); \"as it was, let it be\" (80.23). The phrase punc
tuates the book in various forms to remind its reader that because there is no s
unlight at night and no vision in sleep, any reconstruction of the night must al
so inherently study the \"shadyside\" of the creation (585.29)- its nightly decr
eation-through whose dark force the fiat and the covenant are breached as, on th
e underside of the earth and closed eyelids, the world is hurled back to the \"p
rimeval conditions\" that obtained before its genesis (599.9-10).3 \"Like a grea
t black shadow\" (626.24-25), HCE therefore passes the night in the intangible d
eeps of an \"earth in umber hue\" (588.20), \"in the shade\" of a \"shadowed lan
dshape\" (134.31-32,242.18,251.16, 279.FIS- 16,474.2-3), where he tends to envis
ion only shadows of \"in vas able blackth\" \" and shadows shadows multi pli cat
ing\" (28 I. 17- 18) . It will help a reader both to orient himself in Joyce's \
"book of the dark\" and to maintain an essential \"blank memory\" of his \"own n
ighttime\" if he realizes that an extended representational mannerism put to pla
y in the work seeks in every context \"the best and schortest way of blacking ou
t a caughtalock of all the sorrors of Sexton\" (230.IO-II); since the \"sorrows
of Satan,\" like the \"horrors\" to which a \"sexton\" will introduce one at one
's wake, largely concern the \"trapped head,\" we find the line \"blocking out a
catalogue\" of ciphers that evoke the night's \"seemetery.\" But since \"the ca
ught alack\" in question is simply aman \"arrested\"-\"caught\" and \"locked\" i
n sleep-it also tells us that he tends to find \"the best way of blacking out\"
anything that threatens to disrupt his rest with visionary turmoil. To por- tray
the dark \"optical life\" (179.1-2) of this \"benighted irismaimed,\" Joyce in
turn necessarily and ceaselessly finds \"the best and shortest way of black- ing
out\" anything that might be visualized-by drawing on a number of murky terms t
hat we have already considered (\"black,\" \"blank,\" \"blind,\" \"blot,\" \"blo
tch,\" \"dark,\" \"night,\" and \"murk\") but also ubiquitous others. These \"bl
ackartful\" terms lie everywhere in Pinneaans Wake (121.27), dense- ly woven ove
r every page, scotomizing the work in ways so playfully per- vasive that they ca
n hardly be catalogued and at best merely illustrated. Ac- tively warning a read
er never to visualize anything but \"invasable blackth\" unless there are clear
indications to the contrary, they collectively yield a good rule of thumb to fol
low in reading this \"specturesque\" \"book of the dark\" (427,33): \"keep black
, keep black!\" (34.34 [not \"back\"J).) 218) JOYCE'S BOOK OF THE DARK)))

\"I t is a mere mienerism of this vague of visibilities,\" \"for inkstands\" (60

8.1 [Fr. vaaue, \"empty\"], 173.34), that terms like \"shade,\" \"tar,\" \"coal,
\" \"pitch,\" \"soot,\" and \"ink\" should everywhere occlude words that are oth
er- wise \"basically English\" (II6.26). With intricate particularity, these \"b
lack- artful\" terms (121.27) enable the Wake to adopt its own peculiar \"dressy
black modern style\" (55.14- 15), a \"blackhand\" \"sootable\" to the portraiture of\" a blackseer\" who is given to envisioning only vast \"blackshape[s]\"
and lots of \"pitchers\" (495.2; L, III, 147; 340.13; 608.29; 233.1, 43 8 .13, 5
31.15, 587.14,598.21). Since each such \"pitcher\" would be a \"picture\" more \
"pitch- black\" (385.6) than \"pitch\" (\"pitch,\" \"pitcher,\" \"pitchest\,") a
s \"unseen\" by someone trained with \"the Black Watch\" (438.15 [not necessaril
y a British Highland regiment]), it doubtlessly \"reminds you of the outwashed e
n- gravure that we used to be blurring on the blotchwall\" (13.6-7). Anything so
clear as \"West 23rd Street\" necessarily becomes, when captured from this \"fo
coal\" perspective (41 I. 32) and in one of these \"pitchers,\" only \"Waste- wi
ndy tarred strate\" (549. IS)-a lot of ethereal \"tar\" and \"waste,\" as blown
through the hollows of the \"bloweyed\" \"stratum\" (hence \"strate\") shown lyi
ng there in the \"relief maps\" (534.18). The Wake might be construed, then, as
representing an \"EBONISER. IN PIX\" (304.RI); only apparently an \"Ebenezer\" r
epresentable \"in pictures,\" the \"blackseer\" underlying this phrase is an abs
olute \"eboniser,\" \"blacked out\" and lost in deep \"pix\" (L. \"tar\.") A \"t
arrable\" \"fullsoot\" (520.2, 411.22 [\"terrible falsehood\"]), the \"sootynemm
\" shows \"Eboniser\" \"in duskguise\" as \"a Tar\" (420.5, 532.27, 385.33 [not
necessarily a sailor]), and it makes him \"a quhare soort of a ma- han\" indeed
(16. I): the \"soot\" in that \"soort\" blacks out a word already ebonised by th
e Danish sort (\"black\,") so to locate the Wake's hibernating \"mahan\" (AngloIr., \"bear\") in the \"ideal residence for realtar\" (560.13 [not \"realtor,\"
but \"real tar\"]). \"Watching tar\" (505.2) might well be an ideal preparatory
exercise for any reading of Pinneaans Wake. Every \"blind drawn\" (559.5), ever
y\" black patch\" (559.25, 93.4), and all \"Phenecian blends\" and \"Persia[n] b
lind[s]\" in the Wake (221.32,583.14-15) comparably help the open-eyed reader ap
preciatively to share the \"eye- witless foggus\" and \"Black Watch\" of a sight
less \"irismaimed\" who lies \"un- speechably thoughtless over it all here in Gi
zzygazelle Tark's bimboowood\" (238.36-239. I [note the \"tar\"]): while that \"
bamboowood\" ordinarily makes \"blinds,\" here it makes also \"blind,\" and, tog
ether with the references to \"Gazelle Park\" and \"the Bamboo Wood,\" where Bud
dha lived, it suggests that HCE is not only \"nearvanashed,\" but \"belined to t
he world\" (156.20)- indeed, \"blem, blem, stun blem\" (98.3-4 [\"blind,\" \"sto
ne blind,\" \"stunned,\ \"Meoptics\ 21 9)))
and, by way of the Gael. sl. blem, \"crazy\"]). \"And what wonder with the murke
ry viceheid in the shade?\" (251. 15- 16): \"murky eyesight\" is an only \"certa
inty\" (Da. vished) or \"knowledge\" (Ger. Weisheit) that emerges in sleep's \"m
urky light\" (180.17 [Da. m\037rk, \"dark\"]). Since our hero passes through sle
ep \"siriusly and selenely sure behind the shutter,\" at any rate (SI3.1)-where
\"Sirius\" and the moon (or \"Selene\") orient us in the night and that \"shutte
r\" shuts out light-a reader of the Wake would well do more than \"keep black!\"
: \"pull the blind\" (132.14) and \"draw the shades, curfe you\" (145.33-34 [sin
ce \"curfew,\" \"curse you,\" comes at night]). \"Blueblacksliding constellation
s\" like these \"continue to shape\" the uni- verse of Pinneaans Wake from begin
ning to end (405.9-10), and more often than not, since it is hard to see at nigh
t, in ways \"sootably\" hard to see. \"Umbrellas\" and \"parasols,\" for instanc
e, pop up all over the book because both of these instruments do in miniature wh
at the night does absolutely, blotting out the sun and throwing pockets of \"jet
tyblack\" shade into the world (583.22 [\"parasol\" derives from the It. parare
sole, \"to ward off the sun,\" while \"umbrella\" comes from the L. umbra, \"sha
de\.") The \"great black shadow\" sleeping at the Wake therefore lies embroiled
in a dark \"fam- ily umbroglia\" (284.4)-an \"imbroglio,\" to be sure, since fam
ilial conflicts underlie his dreams, but an \"umbrella\" also, since the essenti

al forces in these conflicts are \"infrarational\" and have nothing to do with v

ision at all. Since dreams threaten to awaken visual consciousness from \"the se
nse ar- rest\" that pervades most of sleep (505.31), every \"exposed sight\" in
Pin- neaans Wake \"pines for an umbrella of its own\" (159.35-36); and for this
reason, we periodically find \"Eboniser\" maintaininghisplacid \"Black Watch\" o
n the world by \"hoistina . . . an emeraency umberolum in byway of para- auastic
al solation to the rhyttel in his hedd\" (338.7-8). The line tells us that rathe
r than working out a \"paraphrastical solution to the riddle in his head\" by fa
cing the conflicts that might disrupt his sleep with the fatiguing de- mands of
a visual dream, the\" blackseer\" in himself\" blanks his oaales\" (340.13, 349.
27 [\"his eyes\"]), opens a big mental \"umbrella\" (Sp, paraauas), and slips fr
om imminent strife back into sleepy peace (hence the contradic- tory play of the
We. rhyfel [\"war\"] and hedd [\"peace\"] in \"the rhyttel in his hedd\.") \"In
any case\" (Fr. en tout cas), since we have an \"entoutcas for a man\" as a her
o (129.6 [Fr. en-tout-cas, \"umbrella\"]), the Wake might now be read as the Bal
lad of \"Parasol Irelly\" (525.16), its shadowy protagonist, the proud owner of
an \"umbrilla-parasoul\" (569.20), moving us some- what \"beyond\" (Gr. para-) o
rdinary Western accounts of the \"soul\" (hence \"parasoul\") .) 220) JOYCE'S BO
The Wake in turn becomes an extended \"umbrella history\" addressed to \"lay rea
ders\" (573.36, 35 [as opposed to \"standing\" ones]), and it pro- ceeds \"paras
oliloquisingly\" (63.20 [as a \"soliloquy\" made in the shade well ought]), \"go
ing forth by black\" (62.27) while moving \"Parasol Irelly\" through a stream of
shady encounters localized, for instance, \"on Umbrella Street\" (98.24) or \"u
nder the idlish tarriers' umbrella of a showerproofwall\" (182.15-16): \"idlish
tarriers,\" in contrast to athletically jogging \"Irish har- riers,\" would simp
ly lie there, \"tarrying idly\" in one dark spot, while that \"showerproofwall\"
would resist not only rainfall but anything at all threat- ening to \"show\" it
self (\"shower\" can rhyme with \"lower\" here). As an \"um- brella history,\" i
n turn, the Wake becomes peopled by the many \"dark- ener[s]\" (418.5), \"shadow
ers\" (60.21), \"dark deed doer[s]\" (246.30), and other such\" invisi ble fri e
nds\" (546.29) who move through our hero's\" tropped head\" during sleep and, by
day, engage him in all manner of unconscious struggle. Anyone may well recall s
uch \"invisible friends\" by cultivating a \"blank memory\" of last night: blind
though you may have been, \"you saw their shadows. . . struggling diabolically
over this, that and the other. . . near the Ruins\" (518.3-6 [where these \"Ruin
s,\" from the L. ruere, \"to fall,\" return us to a meditation on the body shown
rubbled in the relief maps]). 4 In the Wake, these \"invisible friends\" includ
e many \"Doyles\" and \"Sul- livans.\" So many \"Doyles\" and \"Sullivans\" popu
late Pinne8ans Wake that the book calls the \"component partners\" of the morphi
c \"state\" it represents \"doyles when they deliberate but sullivans when they
are swordsed\" (142.8, 26-27 [Fr. sourd, \"deaf\"]), though collectively they re
solve into \"The Mor- phias\" (142.29 [Gr. Morpheus]). While the name Doyle, der
iving from the Gaelic 6 Dubhahaill, literally means \"black-foreigner\" and hist
orically re- fers to the Danes; and while Sullivan, comparably, derives from the
Gaelic 6 S6ileabhdin and literally means \"black-eyed,\" Joyce said he \"put th
e lan- guage to sleep\" in Pinneaans Wake and consequently \"could not. . . use
words in their ordinary connections\" (If, 546). Many of the \"Doyles\" and \"Su
llivans\" who appear in the Wake, accordingly, linger there in extraor- dinary w
ays. Sleep forces the Wake's \"benighted irismaimed\" into all sorts of \"blank
assignations\" with the \"doyle\"-the \"dark alien\"-in himself (575.15);5 and t
he book's many \"Sullivans\" often have eyes less visibly black than eyes with \
"blackeye lenses\" \"blacked out\" to the core. For all the \"bleakeyed\" figure
s and forms moving throughou t Pinneaans Wake (327.29), the only violence perpet
rated on them is the night's-as anyone falling asleep anywhere will note: \"Cona
n Boyles will pudge the daylives out through him\" (617.14-15), and so badly tha
t all things will \"change their) \"Meoptics\ 221)))

characticuls during their blackout\" (617.13- 14). What the Wake studies in its
accounts of tortuous struggles between \"Doyles\" and \"Sullivans\" and \"Tars\"
of this \"soort\" are conflicts that Joyce commemorates as \"Contrasta- tions w
ith Inkermann\" (71.8-9). These stand in \"contrast\" to Goethe's Con- versation
s with Eckermann, a tome of almost unbearable light, in being re- laxingly dark;
for if an \"inkman\" is black, an \"inkerman\" must be blacker; and if Goethe h
elped lift the Enlightenment to its apex (\"More light!\,") the Wake helps injec
t it with a little more dark (\"Keep black!\. At the end of many a \"blindfold p
assage\" (462.35) and movement \"down blind lanes\" (II6.34), the Wake ends up p
ointing its \"irismaimed\" into \"an allblind alley leading to an Irish plot in
the Champ de Mars, not?\" (II9.31- 32 [Fr. champ des morts, \"cemetery\"]). Beca
use the man \"trapped head\" at the Wake lies \"blurried\" in the night's \"seem
etery\" (13. II [\"blurred,\" \"bur- ied\"]), the reader might also enter his \"
eyewitless foggus\" by recalling or imagining what it would be like to \"have of
coerce nothing in view to look forwa